Life As a Crumb, With a Puppy Named Sam
by AnonymousLombax
Summary: For most of his life, Dean had wondered if he was of any importance at all.He reminded John of Mary, that was his problem.Maybe if…but that was for another time.Now someone needed him.He didn't want to mess it up. AU Sam,Dean,Castiel,Bobby, some John/OC
1. Prologue

Prologue

_Take care of Samantha_. That's how it had started. Since that fateful night of the fire, Dean had done just that. He'd taken care of Samantha, because Dean was a good boy, and he did what he was told. Then John got hurt, and it was _Be good for Bobby. _Dean didn't mind that, Bobby was nice; he treated Dean and Samantha like they were his own children. But then John met Maggie. Once their father had become enamored with the red-haired bar tender from one of the dingiest towns Dean could ever remember…things changed. No longer was it _Take care of Samantha; look after yourselves, Dean, you're a big boy now._

No. Now it was _Listen to Maggie! Dean, obey your mother!_ That was when Dean realized that things were never going to be the same. John had forgotten—or chosen to forget—about Mary, his and Samantha's mother, and now Maggie was supposed to take their beautiful mother's place. That didn't settle with Dean. But for his father's sake, Dean had persevered, hoping that someday, John would realize the mistake he was making, and would turn back time to make it all right.

Here Dean was, three years later—looking into the eyes of another baby, Maggie's baby—and he realized that it would never be all right again. Not as long as Maggie was in the picture. Now that John had a baby to look after and coo at, a baby whose mother was still alive to enjoy its life with him, Dean and Samantha were nothing to him. Just painful reminders of a life that John once had, but had been taken from him.

When Dean was watching John and Maggie play with Chester, ooh-ing and aah-ing over the baby's cuteness, Dean realized that he and Samantha were like crumbs. Pieces of food that had once been important, but were now only in the way. Not quite trash, because there might be a little value in a crumb, especially if you're starving, but it's certainly not the _new _sandwich that you're holding in your hands.

"Life as a crumb, Samantha." Dean said softly, cuddling his baby sister to his side. "We're crumbs. Nobody likes those."

The little girl shook her head, her wide brown eyes staring up at her hero brother with unabashed adoration. "Puppies like crumbs, Dean."

Dean smiled at the girl's innocence. "Then we gotta find us a puppy, huh Sam?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **For most of his life, Dean had wondered if he was of any importance at all. He reminded John of Mary, that was his problem. Maybe if…but that was for another time. Because now, someone needed him. Now that people depended on him…he didn't want to mess it up.

**Pairing: **What, you were looking for a romance? Not quite my style…

**Rating: **Uh…M, to be safe. I like blood and stuff…

**Words: **TOO MANY TO COUNT ;)

**Disclaimer: **So I don't own them. Any of them. Yeah, I'm using them… So? Shoot me. It's not like I'm getting _paid _or anything. I do own Maggie and Samantha.

**A/N**

**I realized I forgot an Author's Note on the previous chapter. Well, now that the prologue is out of the way I guess it won't hurt to explain a little. **

**This is an AU story where (can't say too much, it'll give it away) Sam is an adult, and Dean is 8 and has a 4 year old sister named Samantha. There's also a little Castiel thrown in cuz he's hilarious.**

**BTW **I did not have a beta. If you think I've got a lot of mistakes in here and would like to volunteer for the upcoming chapters, let me know. Otherwise, read on….

Dean rubbed the sore spot on his shoulder. _If only unloading dishes wasn't so __**hard**__! _If he could have reached the cabinet without a step stool, Dean would be lacking a hand-shaped bruise from where Maggie had ham-fisted his shoulder in her anger. _What's a little China, anyway? If you don't want it broken, don't give it to a boy. _But it was China that John had given to Maggie on their first anniversary, and apparently it didn't look all that attractive scattered about the kitchen floor. Naturally, that meant that Dean was now not only awaiting further punishment from Maggie, but a stern—most likely _loud_—lecture from John as well. It might not have been so bad, had Samantha not pummeled into Maggie, throwing her little fists against the woman's leg over and over until Maggie let go of Dean.

The door slammed and Dean sighed, knowing John was home from a long day of hunting, and would be tired, sore, and crabby.

_But Maggie's at work_, Dean reminded himself. _She won't tell John about the little accident until she gets home! _That meant some peace and quiet, and hopefully, Dean could squeak Samantha and himself into bed before Maggie got home. He would have a hard time explaining Samantha's black eye, though. It wouldn't be the first time he had been forced to come up with a believable story to cover the wounds that Maggie enjoyed inflicting upon John's children while he was out hunting.

But when the light flicked on in the sitting room, and footsteps that were unlike John _or _Maggie's sounded through the hallway, Dean realized he was worried. _NotJohnNotMaggie _his head voice kept chanting, followed by the ever-present _DANGER_ that screamed like an alarm in his skull. Grabbing the nearest thing he could reach—a magazine—he rolled it up tightly.

"Hello?" he hated how weak his voice sounded.

"Um…hello?" a man's deep, cautious voice responded. Dean almost jumped. _Since when do intruders talk? _He wondered, creeping silently through the dark kitchen.

"Where are you?" the voice continued. Whoever this was, they didn't have their "burglar etiquette" quite right.

"The bedroom!" Dean lied.

"Oh…where is that?"

Dean almost smiled. If only John could hear this, he'd be in fits right now. This burglar was _so _easy. If he could just keep him distracted until he could call 911!

"I'll give you a clue." Dean tried, walking stealthily toward the phone that hung on the kitchen wall. "Marco!"

Suddenly there was a presence behind him. _Very _close behind him. Like, in his space, behind him.

"I don't understand." The voice said. Dean whirled, magazine ready to strike the man.

"Personal space, dude!" Dean cried, whapping the magazine against the man's waist. "You're in my _house!_"

The man grabbed Dean's wrist gently. "Of course I am in your house. How else am I supposed to talk to you?"

Dean hit the man with his free fist, which the man easily grabbed as well. "Stop! Please, Dean, I mean you no harm."

Dean ceased his struggling and eyed him warily. The man had knelt down so that he was eye to eye with Dean. Brilliant blue orbs sparkled in the pale light that streamed in through the sitting room. The man had a kind, almost inquisitive face, and wore a terribly unfashionable camel-skin trench coat.

"Who are you?"

"Castiel." The man replied quietly.

"Friend of Bobby's?"

"Not particularly."

"John's? Maggie's?"

The man shook his head. "Neither. I am _your _friend, Dean. For you and Samantha. I was instructed to tell you something, you see. That is what I do, I protect and inform. I cannot protect you right now—though later, that is a different story. For right now, I need you to listen closely. You are not safe here."

"No duh, Sherlock." _This isn't the first punishment trophy I've sported_.

Castiel cast him a measured glance. Apparently this stranger didn't know who Detective Sherlock Holmes was.

"Your sister will not be safe either. Maggie plans on convincing John to get rid of the two of you. He will—"

"Wait! How do you know this?" Dean cast a furtive look towards Samantha's bedroom. Hopefully she was still sleeping.

"How would I not?" The man replied, still having shown no particular emotional expression on his handsome, passive face. He rambled on without waiting for Dean's response. "Your sister said a prayer, and though it was rather circulatory and confusing, the general consensus was that she wanted to feel safe, loved, and that she wanted a…a puppy. While that last part does not particularly fit into our overall schedule, something has been arranged. Someone will come for you tomorrow, be ready to do whatever they tell you, all right?"

"How do I know I can trust you? How will I know who this person is?"

Castiel raised his eyes toward the ceiling, a long-suffering sigh passing through his lips. _The first emotional response all evening, _Dean mused.

"There will be no doubt."

Castiel patted Dean's head, and Dean had to stop himself from leaning into the man's touch. Stranger or not, it was the most affection he'd been shown since Chester had showed up. Castiel stood to leave. Dean heard the man's knee pop in the process, and cringed, thinking of how John always cursed like a sailor whenever that happened. But the man kept silent, and even cast a small smile in Dean's direction.

"The puppy's name is Sam."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Dean to wonder why in the world they would name a puppy after Samantha.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N** I know this chapter is short...but it's necessary. BTW please let me know if I'm getting characters right so far.**

Castiel zapped himself to the crummy bar that his current charge had insisted they meet in. He remembered the young man saying something about "having a table between us", and Castiel briefly wondered if his charge had the same "personal space" problem—whatever that was—that Dean had spoken of.

He found his charge sitting in a booth in the far corner of the room—although how any _normal _person could see through the smoky haze befuddled the angel. His enhanced senses did him wonders in this strange human world. The young man was sitting there, a strange look on his face that Castiel remember his brothers relating to words like _loneliness _and _sorrow. _He put on a small smile for the young man, hoping that would cheer him up.

"Hey Cas." The young man nodded his greeting.

"Hey." _I sound like such a robot sometimes…_

"How'd it go?"

"He hit me."

The man's face split into a grin. "Really? Kid's got spunk."

"With a sharp roll."

"A what…?"

"I do not know. It was like colorful, smelly paper with pictures…but rolled up so it was very hard."

His charge grinned again. "A rolled up magazine? Wow, Cas, you got _served!_" Castiel had no idea what "served" meant, but if it made his charge smile, then that was fine with him.

"I knew Dean was good. I just…I wish…" The young man across from him paused as he caught sight of something over Castiel's shoulder. Castiel didn't know what he was looking at, but after he had looked into the mirrored glass behind the booth, he figured it had something to do with the angry-looking red-head that was staring at them from behind the counter of the bar.

"You think that lady heard us?"

Castiel shrugged. "Does it matter if she did?"

"No…it's just—I dunno. She's weird, I guess."

Castiel shrugged again, stiffly, wondering why, when faced with something he did not understand, his charged always chalked it up to "weird" and let it slide.

"So he's ready then?"

"He is informed, yes."

"I pick him up tomorrow?"

"Hopefully before the fight breaks out."

"What fight?" the young man asked in a small voice.

"The fight between John and Maggie. The one that you have to prevent."

"Nothing like a little pressure…" he swallowed the rest of his drink. "Thanks Cas. And uh…when you _can, _could you try and remember to tell me what this is all about?" the young man stood, tossing a few dollar bills onto the table—for what, Castiel could not remember—and stalked toward the door, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low door frame as he exited the bar.

"You." Castiel told the retreating man quietly. "It is all about you."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**

_Thanks to all the people who put this story on alert. I promise I won't let you down and stop writing in the middle of it. I have a grand total of 1 ½ chapters ready to post after this one, and I'm hoping that since it's a 3 day weekend I'll get some more written. __**BTW**__, __**Happy Labor Day**__. _

_I'd also like to thank the very kind user__** T.L. Arens**__, who dropped a review into my mailbox. The baby is a boy…and I think this chapter will pretty much show you what type of a step-mother Maggie is. She doesn't have a huge part in the story, but she'll probably make a couple of recurring appearances, especially if I decide to integrate any flashbacks. _

_Anyways, here's the next chapter. It's kinda long. Hope you all enjoy it. Oh yeah, and my name's Lex. So, happy holiday weekend. _

_-Lex_

_**Disclaimer: **__Ha ha, can't forget this. If I did, the ridiculous copyright company would probably come visit me with some scary guys in black uniforms. Well…I don't own Supernatural. So BRING IT. I've got a shotgun…loaded with something that packs a harder punch than rock salt. _

Dean tapped his fingers nervously against the kitchen table, absent-mindedly playing with a few crumbs from this morning's toast that hadn't been cleaned up yet. He had yet to tell Samantha about his strange visit from Castiel. He had packed her little backpack anyway, with a spare change of clothes and a few toys, just in case Castiel asked them to leave. He had just managed to throw a few of his own things into a bag before Maggie came home, and he had had to shut his light off so she didn't know he was awake.

Now it was nearly 9 a.m., and he still had yet to receive John's thundering lecture. He had simply been told to wait in the kitchen while John and Maggie gave Chester—the new, infant-cute son—a bath. No doubt, Maggie was spilling the beans now.

The bathroom door clicked open, and then shut. John emerged from the hall, a measured look of annoyance on his dark face.

"Is it true, Dean?"

Dean could only imagine one thing that would cause John to ask that question. "Yes sir."

"What did I tell you about obeying your mother?"

"I did!" Dean insisted, trying to keep any whining tone out of his voice. "I unloaded the dishes, like she said."

"But you broke some."

"You're not supposed to put china in the dishwasher anyway, it says so on the back—" Dean stopped when he realized he was smart-mouthing again.

John almost looked amused. "That's not the point, Dean."

"I'm sorry?" Dean tried.

"You will be." Maggie's voice added as she joined the little group, bouncing a gurgling Chester on her slim hip.

"Maggie, I'm sure it was an accident, the boy's only—"

"Accident or _not _he has to learn!"

Maggie single-handedly undid John's belt buckle and yanked the leather through the denim belt loops in one swift motion, causing John—Dean's strong, pillar-like father—to stumble slightly from the force.

"The shed. We'll discuss Samantha's behavior when you get back." She held the clothing accessory out to John, who took it numbly. Dean slowly stood, heading for the door. He stopped in his tracks when he heard John and Maggie arguing.

"It's them or _me_, John!" Maggie yelled. John must have been trying to reason quietly with her. "Dean and Samantha…or Maggie and Chester. Take your pick."

"Look, Mags, I don't _hate_ my kids! They're just…it's hard." John finished lamely, for once not raising his own voice.

"It's _hard_, they remind me of _her_, she was so _pretty_…" Maggie huffed, adapting her own whiney version of John's voice, mocking him. "Get. OVER. It! You're either with _me, _or you're on the street with them!"

Dean heard John sigh. "Go to the shed, Dean, wait for me there."

"Yes sir." Dean spun on his heel, eager to get out of the loud house. He tromped towards the door, not realizing until it was too late that his path was blocked. He found himself face-first against the rather _intimate_ area of a pair of jeans that were being worn by a gigantor of a man, easily six-foot-four with a thick mop of shaggy brown hair.

_Second intruder in less than 24 hours, must be a record. _Dean smirked, wondering if this one would be as amusing as Castiel. _Wait…Castiel! __**Someone will come for you tomorrow, be ready to do whatever they tell you**__..._Castiel's admonition rang clearly through Dean's head. _Is this the person he was talking about? _

"Easy, Sparky." The man whispered, putting a firm hand on Dean's slim shoulder. He had a deep, soothing voice that cracked slightly, hinting that it hadn't quite grown with the man, and would soon deepen even more. _I sure hope he's not due for another growth spurt too…_Even now that the man was kneeling, Dean had to look up to see him. "Where's your sister?"

"In the bedroom." 

"Go get her."

"I can't! They're—" Dean was interrupted by the sound of a vase breaking. _At least it's not me this time, _Dean thought happily.

"They won't see you. Just hurry, okay?"

Dean nodded and bounded out of the room, up the stairs and away from all the noise. He plucked Samantha from the bed, covering her mouth with his hand. She looked at him, trust oozing out of her chocolate eyes, and he smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. All right? We're gonna be okay."

She nodded, and he grabbed both of their backpacks from the closet where he had stashed them. He headed for the stairs, his sister in his arms, when he had to stifle a gasp. He saw his father, standing stock still, hands held shoulder-high as he stared down the barrel of a gun. Maggie's gun. The one that John had bought her, insisting she learn how to use it. Well, she'd learned all right. Seemed to remember all those lessons, too.

"John, I swear—"

"Maggie, please…put the gun down."

"Choose, John. NOW!"

_Oh heavens, they were still on __**that **__subject?_

"Maggie, I can't! Please—don't make me." John's voice held a pleading, hurt tone that Dean didn't think he had heard before in his life.

"Can't do it, huh?" Maggie readjusted her grip on the revolver. "Fine. You don't have to."

John's face fell slack with relief—just before the immediate shock set in as Maggie's bullet slammed into his shoulder. Dean's ears rang ominously, barely registering his father's grunt of pain. Samantha screamed in horror.

"Unggh!" John fell to his knees, clutching his right arm.

The door slammed against the wall, Dean guessed that the man had chosen this moment to make his entrance.

"Drop the gun!"

Dean and Maggie whirled to face the voice, the revolver barrel was now aimed at the stranger. _Wow, you're gutsy_, Dean thought as he took in the sight of the tall man standing in the sitting room. Even with Maggie's gun trained on him, the man remained perfectly calm.

"What are you doing in my house! Get out, get out, get OUT!" Maggie screamed, waving the gun at him. The man held out a badge.

"Agent Ross, Child Protection Services. We received a call from the neighbors, they said they thought they heard a domestic dispute, and that children might be involved…I guess they were right." He glanced at John. "Hang in there, sir, I've already called an ambulance."

"Already?" Maggie raged. "How long have you—"

"I knocked a couple of times—nobody answered. I heard the gunshot and—"

"And barged into my house!" Maggie wailed. "You have no rights!"

"And neither do you, you gave yours up the moment you touched that gun with children present."

Dean wasn't sure that was _completely _true, but didn't think that now was the appropriate time to bring that little detail up.

"So what, you're going to _arrest me?_"

"No…I'll let the cops do that." He nodded at Dean. "It's okay, kids. I'm gonna need you to come with me."

Dean began to finish his escape, practically jumping that last six stairs and running to safety (or what he thought was safety) behind the C.P.S. agent.

"That's it, kiddo. Nice and easy, don't upset your mom."

"I'm NOT their MOTHER!" Maggie screamed. "Can't you see?" even though Dean knew the man _couldn't _see what Maggie was so aggravated about.

"Calm down please, ma'am."

"They were pretty dumb, sending you here on your own for a _domestic dispute_." Maggie spat.

The man nodded toward the door. "My partner's outside."

Dean poked his head around the open door, and saw last night's intruder, Castiel, leaning up against one of those classic black cars that he couldn't place the name of. That stupid trench coat still hung on the man's slender frame. It was wet—sopping, actually—and Dean realized that it was raining heavily. Pouring was more like it, and there Castiel was, standing in it, seemingly unfazed.

John—who Dean had pretty much forgotten about until now—groaned. Agent Ross rushed to kneel at John's side. Maggie's gun followed him.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

John nodded weakly.

"It's gonna be okay, the police will be here soon."

"De'n…Saman'a" John mumbled.

"Your kids? They'll be fine, they're coming with me."

John nodded, clasping the man's bicep in an iron grip despite his weakened state. "Do I…I know you?"

The man patted John's uninjured shoulder reassuringly. "Nah, I don't think so. Hang in there, buddy. Just hang—hang on a sec." The man took off his _Abercrombie & Fitch _hoodie, pressing it to John's shoulder despite the fact that it looked a little damp.

"Get away from my husband!"

"What, the one you _shot_?" Agent Ross huffed.

The gun, still in the hand that had temporarily dropped to hang by Maggie's side, was now pressing into Ross's shoulder.

"Get. Away."

_Don't hurt him…oh God, please don't let her hurt him! _Dean prayed, even though he wasn't sure he believed that praying would help. He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped. It was Castiel.

"Dude, you gotta stop sneaking up on us."

Castiel ignored him. "Come with me, Dean. Please, and your sister."

Dean nodded his consent. "What about Ross? My Dad?"

"Your dad will go to a hospital. S—…er, Ross, will come with us."

Dean looked at Samantha, who was ramrod stiff and wide-eyed in his arms. Castiel reached for her, and Dean slowly—oh so _slowly_—relinquished his bundle of joy. Castiel headed for the car, holding the trench coat over Samantha's head, but Dean wasn't sure he should leave yet.

"Get _away_ or I shoot." Maggie hissed.

Ross nodded. "Okay—fine. You win." He rose to his feet. "But if you want him to live, you gotta keep pressure on the—_oomph_!"

Maggie's high-heeled boot connected with his shin.

"Ow! Lady, that _hurt! _"

"Out."

Ross blew hair out of his eyes and regained his balance. "Cas," he called. "Am I supposed to take Chester along wi—"

Another gunshot rang out, and the C.P.S. agent crumpled to the ground. Dean gasped, felt himself being pushed out of the way as Castiel barged back into the house. Maggie fired at him too, once—twice—then twice _more, _but Castiel ducked, and the bullets hit the wall, raining crumbs of plaster to the floor. _I can't get away from the freaking crumbs…_Dean thought—it was his last thought before nausea washed over him as he spied the puddle of blood underneath of Ross's head.

_**I can't say that I feel guilty leaving you guys with a cliff-hanger. Cuz I don't really. I made you a promise that I would keep coming back until the story ended…and as you will see, I keep my promises.**_

_**Does anybody even read Author's Notes? I'm not sure. I don't think there's mistakes in here. If there are, go ahead and point them out. I use spell-check…but that's Word. And we all know how PERFECT that is. Uggh…oh well. Until next time. **_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N**_

_**The story is set in modern times—it's an AU after all—because my plot requires the use of modern technology. **_

_**Cold Kagome—yes, she is a piece of work. Fun to write, too…**_

_**And thanks to the users who put my story on their alerts, and listed me as one of their favorite authors. **_

_**Disclaimer: Oh—the usual. If I owned Supernatural, all y'all would be watching my ideas via episodes, not reading them here on this site…**_

"One step closer to my baby, and your partner is dead." Maggie threatened, gun poised over Ross's head.

Castiel stopped short, hands up immediately. Dean swallowed. Things had gone from bad to worse at a frightening pace, and now his father _and _his rescuer were lying on the floor in two puddles of blood that had mixed with the other. _They're both the same color puddles_, Dean mused. Then again, wasn't all blood the same color? He didn't know, honestly, because he'd never seen this much blood before in all of his short life.

"F'ne lady, ya cin keep… ur freak'n b'by." Ross panted. Relief washed over Dean. _So he's not dead! _Dean didn't know how someone could survive a gunshot to the head, but the man was clearly alive.

"Yes. Do let us go." Castiel said almost mechanically.

"Fine. Go. It's all I wanted in the _first _place!" Maggie growled, snatching Chester off of the couch where she had left him during her and John's argument. Ross struggled to get his feet under him, and Dean rushed to his side, not sure if he could budge the large man, but wanting to try and help anyway.

"Come _on, _mister!" Dean urged, tugging on the large hand that dwarfed _both _of his simultaneously. Ross finally got to a kneeling position, only to suffer a faceplant a moment later. A muffled grunt was the only thing that let Dean know he was still conscious. He felt himself being pushed gently aside as Castiel bent to help his fallen partner.

"Samantha!" Dean cried, suddenly wondering where she had wandered off to.

"The car," Castiel grunted. "Hurry."

Ross looked like he was on his feet and supporting himself now, so Dean took off at a dead run. He made it to the car door, ready to flop into the seat, when he heard a scream of agony. Not sure if he _wanted _to know what it was, he turned around to watch as Castiel tumbled out of the doorway, knocked flat to the ground by Ross, who had seemingly fallen on top of him. That's when Dean saw the knife—the one Maggie kept tucked in the ankle of her boot to defend herself against unruly bar patrons—lodged hilt-deep in Ross's hip.

Apparently she had realized that her revolver only held six shots, and she'd used all of them. Ross stumbled off of Castiel, cursing the whole way, and helped the smaller man to his feet. Then they ran—well, Ross limped, and badly, to the car.

"Get in." Castiel ordered. Dean clambered into the seat and immediately looked back to Samantha, who was still wide-eyed and bushy-tailed from the excitement that she didn't understand. Castiel slid in the back seat as well, leaving Ross to drive. Dean wasn't so sure that was a good idea, but Castiel seemed okay with it, so Dean settled in, buckling his seat belt.

He'd never ridden in the front seat of anything before, let alone a car with such immaculate seats. The black leather smelled richly of conditioner, the entire interior of the car smelled fresh despite its obvious age. Someone had taken excellent care of the car—_no, roaring black beast_—Dean corrected himself, as Ross slammed the key into the ignition and gunned the engine. Dean had never heard such a beautiful sound.

The miles slipped away quietly, and Dean caught himself looking wistfully at the stereo. He looked forward to car rides specifically because of the music—and to be cliché—tonight's silence was deafening.

"Who would christen their child "Chester Winchester"?" Castiel's voice broke the silence, and Ross visibly jumped.

"Huh? I dunno…John Winchester, I guess."

"Maggie named him." Dean piped up.

"You're awake. How you doing, kiddo?" Ross spared a glance at Dean, who caught the man's eyes in the darkening afternoon light. What little there was, thanks to the rain. They looked dull, way too dull. Interesting.

"Good." He answered, lamely, wishing he had it in him to ask how Ross was holding up. "Where are we going?"

"Anywhere you want."

Dean thumbed his bottom lip. _Anywhere, huh? That was a new one. _"Uh…Paris?"

Ross chuckled softly. "Okay…uh, maybe I should clarify: anywhere in the States, Hawaii and Alaska excluded. This baby doesn't float."

Dean laughed quietly. "So…we can stop for some food?"

"Definitely. Next town's not for a couple hours, though."

Dean nodded. "That's fine." _For me anyway, _he amended as he looked at the knife that was still embedded in the man's hip. "How's my sister?"

Ross glanced in the rearview mirror. "Asleep. Just like Cas." He shot a tired grin at Dean, who could feel Castiel's glare heating the interior of the vehicle. "Want some tunes?"

"Yeah, whatcha got?"

He shrugged. "Lemme check—" he pulled over to the side of the road, putting the car in "park". He reached for a small cardboard box that Dean presumed held tapes.

"Aaah!" he cried out, clutching at his hip. "Unngh, bad idea…" he rested his forehead against the steering wheel, panting. Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the dried blood from his head wound, staining the sweat-soaked collar of his t-shirt with a bloody pink dye.

"Sam?" Castiel asked.

"Yeah, Cas?"

"Are you doing well?"

"No!" he grunted.

_Sam? _Dean wondered. _I thought his name was Ross. _Of course that had been his last name, but…what were the chances? _Samantha…Sam…_the puppy. Where was the puppy? He distinctly remembered Castiel saying that there would be a puppy, and its name would be Sam. Certainly Castiel hadn't meant that the _man _was a puppy…?

He was startled out of his thoughts by Ross—or was it Sam?—clapping a shaky hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Hey kid, I'm gonna have to…uh…take care of this." He panted. "Stay here with Cas—and Samantha."

Dean nodded, torn between obeying the order and offering to help. He wanted to help, maybe he could distract the man from the pain by talking to him. He was good at that, he'd distracted little Samantha with his mindless chattering on numerous occasions. He could take advantage of the opportunity to try and work out what had been puzzling him for the past few hours—like _what is going on? _And _who are you guys?—_but judging by the pained look on the tall—no, take that back; _sasquatch_—man's face, Dean wouldn't be getting any answers out of him. And he _needed _answers, because good Lord, he had _questions. _ So that left only one person. Coincidentally—that would be the very same person who _started _it all…Castiel.

With a new purpose burned into his young head, Dean spun around on the seat, his attention on Castiel, who jumped at the sudden movement. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam painfully limping toward the trunk of the car, head down against the rain.

"Cas?" Dean began. "Care to explain?"

Castiel frowned. "Explain what?"

"Try "sure, Dean, what cha wanna know?"" Dean huffed.

Castiel's frown deepened. "I do not understand."

"Yeah, so you've told me." He crossed his arms on top of the long, straight back of the front seat. "Let's start with a few things…the more important ones, 'kay?"

Castiel nodded slowly.

"Why does Sam have the same name as my sister? Where's the dog you were talking about? And how the _heck _did you guys find us?"

Castiel's lips turned upwards in a small smirk. "Is that all…"

Dean rolled his eyes, not knowing that Castiel was even _capable _of being sarcastic—or if Castiel even realized that's what he was doing. "I'm waiting." Dean prompted.

"The name Sam, and its derivatives, are very common. The name is old, dating back to the Biblical times of the Judges—" Dean was giving him a blank stare, and Castiel switched tracks. "Sam is…your sister's protector. I am yours." He shrugged. "The rest can wait until later." He sighed, then, almost as an afterthought, opened his mouth again.

"And I never said anything about a _dog." _The word was laced with distain, and he gave a visible shudder.

_Yes, you __**did**__, a-hole_, Dean sighed. "You still didn't answer how you found us."

"We –" Castiel started as the loud clatter of something being dropped heavily into the trunk shook the frame of the car. "We found you the same way anyone else would. We looked."

The man's handsome face held the oh-so-popular "like, _duh_" look that implied that Castiel believed Dean to be an idiot. _Or, idjit, as Bobby would say... _Dean stopped thinking. Bobby! They could go to Bobby's house! Dean was sure he could remember the way. It was a day's drive from the Winchester's house, meaning they were already halfway there, at least. He hoped that Sam would hurry and wrap up whatever he was doing outside of the car so that they could get moving again. If Sam drove quickly, maybe they could reach Bobby's house before midnight. He watched as Sam closed the trunk, perhaps more violently than needed, and rested against the car, hands braced on the slick metal in front of him. His head hung low between his shoulder-blades, chin almost touching his broad chest, the wet curtain of chestnut hair obscuring Sam's face from Dean's view. But somehow, Dean knew that if he could see it, it would be pale, and sweaty. Maybe his eyes would even be glazed over a little, like Samantha's had been last month when she caught that nasty cold.

Sam lifted his head, seeming to have regained some strength and composure. Dean watched as he bent down, some of his back still visible, to pick up whatever it was he had set on the ground before closing the trunk. When Sam's back suddenly dropped out of view, Dean knew that Sam had collapsed. He bit his lower lip and swallowed a gasp.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **

_**Hope everybody in the US had a good Labor Day Weekend :D **_

_**I'm glad people are liking the story so much. I haven't been with the Supernatural crowd for too long, so if the characters start to go OOC or if I stray too far from my plot line, you guys will tell me, right? **_

_**Thank you everyone who listed me as a favorite author and put my story on alert. I'd write it even if nobody read it, but knowing that some people are getting enjoyment out of it at least gives me some idea of how much effort to put into it... **_

_**And to Frostygossamer, thanks for all the reviews, I'm glad I got you hooked. To answer your question: so far as I know, this plot is my original idea. **_

_**-Lex **_

_**Disclaimer: Yeah, about that…I don't feel like writing one today. You'll get one next chapter…maybe**_

"Cas, do you have a phone?"

Castiel nodded, digging into his trench coat pocket. "I do, but every time I try to use it, it keeps telling me that I am nearly out of minutes."

The confused look on Castiel's face was priceless, causing Dean to snicker as he flipped open the phone. "That's okay, I'll only need one."

"What are you going to do?"

Dean shrugged, eyeing his still-sleeping sister. "There's been a change of plans."

Dean punched in the number's to Bobby's cell phone, knowing what he had to ask of the man who had always treated him like a son, but knowing that Bobby wouldn't like it. He would moan, and gripe, and whine, but Bobby would do it anyway. He'd do it because Dean was the great John Winchester's son, he had a hunter's blood running through his veins. He'd do it because Bobby loved to dote upon Samantha and watch her play with the toys he bought her. Bobby would do it simply because Dean had asked him to, because that was just the type of guy that Bobby was.

The phone stopped ringing on the other end of the line, and Dean heard the telltale click of the connection being made; heard Bobby's gravelly voice carried across the satellites.

"_Hello_?"

"Uncle Bobby?" Dean had thought about trying to sound grown up, but knew that throwing the "uncle" in there would employ those inclined-to-protect-and-to-serve instincts that would make Bobby's brain do what Dean wanted.

"_Dean? What's goin' on?" _

"Are you busy?" Dean used the line that John always used when trying to segue into a _can you come over and help me out _conversation. And by the tone of voice he was using, Bobby knew it.

"_Not particularly_."

"Great! Well, Maggie shot Dad and these strange guys took us away from him and—"

"_I'm comin' ta get ya, kid." _Bobby rumbled, effectively interrupting Dean. Bobby had always admonished that it was imperative to make sure everyone was safe first, no matter what. Safety first, no questions asked, once all was well details could be had; explanations could be given.

"I know you are, but Bobby?" Dean caught the man just before he hung up. Most likely Bobby had forgotten in his haste that Dean had yet to tell him where they were, too.

"_Yeah son?" _

"Bring your first aid kid please? The big one?"

"_They HURT you?" _

"No, no! One of the good men—I think they're good, anyway—got hurt."

Dean could feel Bobby nodding even though he couldn't see it.

"_Right. I'm on my way. I'll hop on the highway and—did you come from your house?"_

"Yeah."

"_Good. I'll head your direction. Get to the closest town and grab a motel—if those men are worth anythin' they can find a couple rooms for us—call me when you settle into a town, 'kay?" _

Dean nodded, then remembered he was on the phone. "Sure, Uncle Bobby. Thanks."

"_Anything for a Winchester, boy. Just be safe and take care o' yur sister, kay? Those men can take care o' their own wounded." _

Dean wasn't so sure about Castiel's competence, but he knew as soon as Sam woke up they could get moving again. "Okay. Bye."

Bobby hung up, and Dean handed the phone back to Castiel, who slid the phone back into his trench coat pocket.

"You have made plans?"

Dean nodded. Castiel frowned.

"Over a…cell phone? Do you not need a calendar, or a schedule, or map, or—"

Dean held a hand up, his previous doubts about Castiel's competence confirmed. The man was, with all due respect; worthless.

"Uncle Bobby told us to find a town. Can you do that?"

Castiel lifted one shoulder in what Dean presumed was meant to be a shrug. Geez, this guy was such a robot.

"I take that as a no." Dean huffed in annoyance. "Am I the only capable adult around here?"

"I cans help yous, DeDe." A small voice whispered. Dean grinned at his younger sister's nickname for him. _Samantha! _He shimmied over the seat and flopped down next to his sister, who was wide-eyed and bed-headed, clearly still a little sleepy despite having napped for most of the trip. The right side of her curly mop of dark hair was flat from where she had slept with her head pressed up against Castiel using his thigh as a pillow.

"Thanks, Sammy. Do you think you can keep an eye on Cas here while I go find Sam?"

Samantha nodded. "Who's Sam? I'm right here."

Dean frowned. _She'd been in the car by the time the worst of the fight broke out—and asleep for the whole conversation I had with Cas. _He'd have to explain later, if the young girl even remembered after a few minutes' time.

"And without getting out of the car, I need you to look for one of those big green road signs, okay?"

"The ones wheres they say the towns and the miles on them?" Samantha grinned.

"That's what I'm talkin' bout, sweetie."

Samantha nodded again. "I cans do thats DeDe."

"I know you can." He hugged her, shooting Castiel a meaningful look before zipping up his hoodie and opening the car door. He turned around in time to see Samantha clamber over Castiel's lap in search of a road sign, planting her tiny elbow in a very _sensitive _location, eliciting a shocked expression from Castiel as Dean closed the door and tromped to the back of the vehicle.

The rain seemed to have stopped, and Dean was thankful for that. He hadn't enjoyed the prospect of getting drenched just for Sam. Rounding the car's fender, he noted the chrome emblem that read _Impala_, and knew that it was made by Chevrolet, glad to finally know the model of the awesome car he had been riding in for the past hours. There he stopped, having nearly tripped over a boot that was sticking out into the middle of the road. A sturdy work boot, sized a good deal larger than John or Bobby's.

Sam's boot.

Dean swallowed, hazel-green eyes following the outline of wet denim and leather as his gaze swept over Sam's unconscious form. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. Sam's injured leg—the one Dean had almost tripped on—was stretched out on the asphalt. The rest of Sam's body was splayed out along with it, looking cold, soggy, and downright uncomfortable. Either the rain had tried to wash away the blood, or the wound had reopened; Dean couldn't tell. All he knew was that there was blood, lots of it…it was all Sam's, and he was laying in it. Even in his current state of unconsciousness, Sam's face was marred by pain; his wet, shaggy hair clinging to his forehead, causing his tanned skin to look pale in contrast to the dark surroundings. Sam's massive—at least it _looked _massive—right hand was clamped around the hilt of the knife. _Had he been trying to remove it? _Dean wondered. Maybe that's why he had passed out.

Dean bit his lip, trying to steel himself for whatever might be next. He squatted down by Sam's side, knowing his body looked totally dwarfed compared to the injured man's.

"Look, I know unconscious people aren't exactly supposed to look _healthy_, but…geez, Sam, this is a little…_overboard_…don't you think?"

No response. Not like he had expected one, but Sam could have surprised him, and—contrary to popular opinion—Dean really did like surprises.

"Mr…uh, Sam?" Dean tried again. He put his small hand on Sam's shoulder carefully, half afraid the man would wake up and try to land a punch to Dean's jaw. Through the jacket material, Sam's muscles felt tense, coiled like a taut spring ready to explode when the pressure was released. Unnatural heat radiated from the man's body despite the damp chill of the evening air. One word stuck in Dean's head like a flashing neon light. _Fever. _Dean shook the shoulder as best he could, hoping to rouse Sam. They had to get him off of the wet ground, out of the cold, and into a bed; a couch at least, so that he could start warming up and getting better.

Despite what Bobby said, these men would _not _be able to take care of their own wounded. It was painfully obvious that Castiel was a kid in a man's body, learning and comprehending at a rate sub-par to Samantha's, and with the operational repertoire of the average centipede, give or take a few thousand neurons.

Dean sighed at his inability to rouse Sam. He thought back on all the times that one of the Winchester family had been out cold, whether with sickness or other, and wound up being reminded of how unlucky the Winchester family really was. He reminisced the time when Samantha had come down with the flu, and Dean had tried everything under the sun to get Samantha to wake up to take her medicine—talking, joking, poking, shaking—but still the sick little girl had slept on. Then John had waltzed in to save the day again. It had worked so well, Samantha was up and swallowing cherry medicine in a jiffy. So Dean did what he had remembered seeing his Dad do. It seemed slightly inappropriate, but…what choice did he have? Grimacing slightly, he bent down and planted a warm—but very _short—_kiss on Sam's forehead.

**A/N**

**I was inclined to post the next little bit too…but I cut the chapter short. *gives evil laugh* I wanted to see how people reacted to that last sentence before I continued. Not like your reactions will change my story or anything…it's just my own curiosity I guess. **

**Not to mention, my writing streak was cut short by two things tonight :( **

**My sister, singing at top volume. Christian from Phantom of the Opera, you are not, dear sister. So I was torn between telling her to stop—and risk her being mad at me—or suffering through it. Which I did. On the upside, we are still on incredibly good terms. On the downside, I put up with being tortured for an amount of time that I never care to measure. **

**I had to kill a annoying little bug. On my computer screen. Usually I just slam my fist into where the bug lands. Not so with fragile equipment…I'm not so good with fragiles…BUT I GOT THE BUG!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **

**Frostygossamer—a fantastic review yet again, thanks! I haven't watched **_**Night of the Hunter, **_**but the title sounds familiar. And yeah, so far the adults are pretty useless. But we can't let a Winchester **_**not **_**be a hero, now can we? And I'm pretty sure Bobby would be willing to kick Castiel's butt into gear for me if I asked him to…**

**Disclaimer: Yeah, I promised you one, didn't I? Okay, okay I give! I don't own **_**Supernatural**_**. Don't even wish I did—because then those boys would be so close…within grabbing distance! Yet so far away…**

Dean felt immediately inclined to go bleach his mouth and disinfect every inch of his face just in case, but the notion was pushed to the back of his mind when his efforts were finally acknowledged. Dean was rewarded with movement.

Sam stirred, but only slightly. A long, low groan rumbled deep in his throat, and Dean wondered if he had accidentally awakened a sleeping beast. He hoped this man was what they called a "gentle giant" and was proved correct when Sam opened his eyes. Dean stared down into the deep, dark chocolate pools that were Sam's eyes. They were only opened to slits, and clouded with pain and confusion, but they were Sam's eyes nonetheless, and that meant that Sam was awake, and they could finally get moving again.

"Hey kid." Sam rasped slowly.

Dean flashed his high-voltage smile down at Sam. "I've got somebody who's coming to help us. But we gotta get to the next town…" he trailed off as Sam's eyes started to drift shut again.

"Oooh, no you don't!" Dean smacked Sam's jaw, effectively startling the man awake. "You don't wanna know what I had to do to wake you up last time!" Dean groaned. Sam stared at him as if he was speaking gibberish. Or from outer space, maybe. He blinked slowly, the tip of his tongue attempted to wet his fever-dry lips.

Dean huffed. "Can you at least get into the car?"

"Wha' good iz th't gonna do?" Sam slurred.

"Lazy butt Cas could drive us to the next—ow!" Dean choked on his last words as Sam grabbed his bicep in a vice grip. _Come on, I'm still small, dude! Give me a break! _Dean wrenched his arm free, knowing by the strength of the man's weakenedgrasp that, if it had been under any normal circumstances, Dean would have never broken free of that large steel grip.

"Don't….don't let Cas drive."

"Okaay..." Dean bit his lower lip. "We gotta get you to a hos—"

"No hospitals." Sam seemed to be gaining some lucidity; whether it was because he was finally awakening, or desperately trying to prove that he would be fine, Dean wasn't sure.

"Right. Bobby said to find a motel anyway."

"Bobby?" Sam groaned, struggling to a sitting position. "Who's that."

"Don't matter. Can you stand?"

"Not with…" Sam swallowed thickly, motioning weakly toward the knife lodged in his hip. Dean frowned.

"So, pull it out."

Sam shook his head, his wet hair flung bloody droplets of water onto Dean's hoodie. "I can't…I tried." he looked at Dean. Dean met Sam's eyes, then wished he hadn't. Sad brown eyes stared deep into Dean's own eyes, darn near seeing straight into his soul, it seemed. The pupils were dilated with pain, but a small spark of light burned in the midst of it. _Hope…no, want? Need. This guy needs me to save him. _Dean mentally shrugged. _He's banking on the wrong guy. _

"I…" Dean stopped. Was it just him, or did Sam's expression just become even more dejected? Suddenly Dean recognized the feeling of being played up to. His throat closed up a little, and he recognized that Sam was trying to silently communicate with him, to plead on his own behalf for Dean's help. And it was working.

_Samantha's puppy eyes don't have ANYTHING on this guy! _Dean mentally kicked himself for falling for it. But _man,_ that guy had the "please feel sorry for me, sorry enough to help me" puppy eye look down pat. The problem was, that puppy look was always accompanied with the "now that you're wrapped around my finger, could you…" mentality that forced the eye-slave to do whatever the eye-master wanted.

"I can try." Dean said softly, making absolutely no promises. _It's a knife, for crying out loud. It's not like leaving it in there until Bobby gets here will kill the guy, _Dean surmised. Then again, what if it did? If Sam didn't think he could get up until the knife was out, he would end up lying here, on the dark, wet highway, for the rest of the night, or until Bobby's tracking skills led him to this spot. Or Sam would try anyway, and wind up hurting himself even more.

_Looks like a lose-lose situation_. Dean thought.

"What is?" Sam's quiet voice interrupted him.

_Whoops. Did I __**really **__just say that out loud? Way to have tact, Dean. _

"Uh…just thinking." Dean said truthfully. "But I'll try it."

He gently fisted his small hand around the hilt of Maggie's knife. He closed his eyes, counted to three in his head. Then he pulled.

The knife made a grinding sound, then squelched grotesquely. Blood spurted up to coat Dean's hand as Sam's agonized screams drowned out everything else. Dean opened his eyes, expecting to see a bloody knife in his hand, dripping Sam's life-fluid onto the asphalt. Instead, he saw Sam, panting and mumbling something—if the ringing in Dean's ears quieted within the next hour, maybe he could figure out what it was—but worst of all; Dean saw the knife still lodged in Sam's hip.

"Leave it…leave…it…oh _God, _don't…touch…it…" Sam was mumbling over and over, the mantra finally reaching Dean's hurting ears.

"I think it's…"

"Stuck in the bone." Sam panted through clenched teeth.

_Oh. _Dean had been thinking that the knife was just stuck, plain stuck. Not stuck _in. _Because that made things so much worse.

"We have to get to a motel so Bobby can find us."

Sam nodded. "Get…in the car."

"You need some help?"

Sam shook his head forcefully, then winced as his headache made him regret the motion. "Just…uh, give me a sec."

Dean nodded, recognizing the look in Sam's eyes. It was the look he had seen in John's eyes on so many of the nights that the gruff hunter had come home late; tired, dirty, sore…_hurt_. It was the look that said _Leave me alone_. _It's not your fault…I just don't want you to see me like this. _It was a look that Dean knew too well; saw too often, wished he didn't. Wished not for the first time in his young life that he could be a normal kid. Not a hunter's son, not a _Winchester _son…just a normal kid with normal parents and a normal life. A life that didn't see pain, sorrow, and blood more often than not. Blood that was always flowing _out _of the people who tried to help him. But he wasn't normal. He'd spent his whole life being the _opposite _of normal, unimportant to everyone but Samantha, because he usually just got in the way. And apparently he was in the way right now. He recognized Sam's need to be left alone—but that didn't mean that he liked it. Just when he had thought that someone needed him…he'd failed again.

"Hey." A hand on his shoulder made him start. Pained eyes met his. "Hey, you okay?"

Dean nodded, slightly taken aback. _Sam is hurting…and he's asking if __**I **__am alright? _Well, that was new. Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder lightly.

"Our job is to make sure you and Samantha are safe, 'kay? I always do my job. I know you don't know that—don't know me…" Sam looked away, an air of regret passing through him. "I wish you could have…" The last part had been spoken so softly that Dean wondered if it had even been meant for him to hear.

"I'm gonna make this okay." Sam finished steadily, though there was a detectable tremor in his voice. Dean realized that Sam had misinterpreted his silence as doubt, and betrayal; instead of the failure and self-pity that Dean had been angst-ing about. It made Dean realize that it wasn't his place to be moping about right now. He was currently the best off out of their entire, pitiful little group; he was best off. He wasn't wounded, wasn't a toddler, and wasn't socially awkward, or whatever it was that seemed to plague Cas. He was _Dean Winchester_, the most awesome, intelligent, _not too bad-looking_ son and protégé of the great hunter John Winchester. He was going to grow up to save people from the evil that warred in this world.

And he was going to start with Samantha. He remembered Bobby's words from the phone call _"just be safe and take care of your sister". _Right now—Dean looked at the panting, sweating wreck of a man sitting next to him—right now, taking care of Samantha meant taking care of her protector as well. His blood nearly boiled as he realized that this was all Maggie's fault. John, Dean, Samantha—they'd all been fine, just _fine _until Maggie rocked their universe.

After Maggie, John changed. After Chester, John changed even more. It was like the newest additions to his life gave him something to live for—something other than the family he'd already had; something other than the family that was living for him. The family that had caused him nothing but sorrow and grief. The family that reminded him of his losses. The family that reminded him of _Mary_. Mary had been John's one and only love, Dean and Samantha were just additional miracles that had captivated John for a while; but without Mary, those miracles seemed less intriguing. Maggie was second to Mary—but _Chester_…Chesterwas another of those intriguing little miracles that John could share with a woman he loved. Chester reminded him of Maggie, who despite all her faults, was still alive, could still love and be loved. Not so for Dean and Samantha. Not anymore.

Dean's small fists clenched subconsciously. Someday, he was going to kill Maggie. He'd kill Maggie—not only for what she'd done to Sam, because if you messed with Samantha's protector, you messed with Samantha, which meant you messed with _Dean_—but for what she had done to John, to the entire Winchester family. She had ruined their lives. And for that, she would pay.

In those moments of contemplation, Dean made a conscious decision. He would treat this man—this Sam—like family. But not like the family that John had so readily thrown away, even if it _wasn't _a conscious decision on his part. He would treat Sam, and even Castiel (as useless as he was!) like a family that _deserved _to be family. Because if they had done what no one else had ever done for the young Winchesters…if they would sacrifice their _lives _to save his little sister and himself…they deserved more than a pat on the back for a job well done.

On that dark night, on the wet, bloody highway, something bigger than Dean or Sam happened. In the silence that stretched between Sam and Dean, where Sam's eyes searched Dean's thoroughly, imploring the boy to just _trust _him…a connection was made that went deeper, and wove stronger, than the muscular arm that connected them bodily.

**A/N**

**So it's not exactly a cliff hanger here. But I thought you guys might like to know a little bit of what's going on in Dean's mind. Because we all know Dean Winchester doesn't let anyone tell him what to do—he has to have come up with idea himself (even if someone else DID give it to him). **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N**

**Frostygossamer and Cold Kagome—my faithful reviewers! Thanks so much for dropping your thoughts in my inbox. I also accept grapes, soda, and BBQ bacon cheeseburgers, just so you know…**

**To the people who are reading…who I know are there…but remain unnamed (yeah, you know who you are!) Thank you as well. Sticking with a story, waiting for updates—it's hard I think, but all of you have, so thanks =)**

**Disclaimer: How 'bout a nice one? **

**I don't own **_**Supernatural**_**. It all belongs to a certain sir named Kripke. **

**There…I did it =)**

**So, on with the story…oh, and in case any of you are wondering; I'm not Team Dean or Team Sam. They're both awesome characters and great-looking guys. I myself am more like Dean, but my little sister is a lot like Sam, so I feel attached to both brothers equally. Plus I've always loved Jeffrey Dean Morgan, so I guess that makes me Team Winchester. When I'm finished with this story (no end in sight yet) I might do a fic where both brothers are adults. Who knows—anything could happen. Jesus could come back to earth tomorrow and I'll have forgotten about all of it…**

**-Lex**

Bobby Singer adjusted his worn baseball cap to fit his head more snugly. It was a nervous habit he had—fiddling with his cap—one look at his tried and true accessory, and a stranger would know his tell. Not that Bobby was really concentrating on his hat right now, it was more of a subconscious thing. Right now he was more worried about Dean and little Samantha. Dean had been pretty cryptic on the phone—typical Winchester trait—and Bobby's heart had been speeding along at the rate of a bunny rabbit's for the last four hours. All he knew was the John was hurt, Maggie had gone AWOL, and the kids were in the grasp of two unnamed men who had it in their hearts to help them. At least he _hoped _that was their true intention. He really had no idea where to start, save driving all the way to Winchester's garage. From the sound of it, they were last headed Bobby's direction. That should make it easier to track them…

He stopped thinking for a moment, distracted by the ominous black shape looming ahead in the dark. Without taking his eyes off of the road, Bobby flicked his high-beams on, watching in wonder as the lines and planes of a large black vehicle made itself known in the new light. Bobby slowed down as he approached it. It was a Chevrolet Impala, and old one from the looks of it. Looked a heck of a lot like John's Impala, actually. He slowed the truck to a halt, the highway was deserted enough he wasn't too worried about traffic coming in either direction. Grabbing a flashlight and a rock salt loaded sawed-off, he stepped down from his truck.

The headlights helped some with his vision. It was when he shined the flashlight on the license plate though, that he really got worried. _KAZ 2Y5. _It was John's all right. Problem was, he couldn't remember whether or not John had actually gotten around to fixing the beast up. Always talked about it—Maggie wouldn't let him. But he _must _have, Bobby shrugged, because here it was. He adjusted flashlight until he was shining the light into the vehicle. Even through the misty, fogged-up windows, he could tell it was empty, and had been for some time. Vehicles that were in use, or had been recently didn't collect fog like the abandoned ones did, it was one of the laws of the road, it seemed. So the Impala had been abandoned for a few hours, judging by the build-up.

What disturbed him more (like he needed anything _else _to worry about tonight!) was the copious amounts of dark liquid—Bobby recognized blood when he saw it—that had seeped into the asphalt along with the slowly evaporating puddles of rain. _Dear Lord, don't let that be Dean or Samantha's! _He thought, although it sounded quite close to a prayer. He shook it off, leaving things like that to Pastor Jim. But Dean had mentioned that one of the two men were hurt, hadn't he? Yeah, that had to be it. Then that begged the question; what had they gotten themselves into? Had Maggie really managed to inflict _that much damage _onto more than one fully grown adult male? _Scary thought_, Bobby shuddered. _I even kinda liked that Maggie chick. Not like she's anything like the Mary that John spoke so fondly of. _But John had found a place in his heart for another woman, so Bobby thought that had stood for something. Apparently not. That, or Maggie just didn't share the same "live for you; die for you" inclination that seemed to run thickly through that stubborn Winchester blood.

Bobby shook his head, almost amused at where the current predicament had landed them all. He shined the flashlight further ahead and found himself staring at a highway sign. _Oh finally. _He huffed as he read the sign. Five miles. Five miles separated him from those Winchester kids. At least he hoped that was all it was. If the men had any brains—and if they didn't, _Dean _did—they would find a motel in _this _town, and not bother with the 15-mile-away town that was listed underneath. Of course, they had left the car here, which meant they had either walked the five miles; which wasn't likely, especially with a wounded man (Bobby refused to think that one of the Winchester's current guardians might be _dead)_ or they had hitched a ride, but it didn't appear to be that anything was actually _wrong _with the vehicle.

As Bobby clambered back into his pick-up, he realized that he wasn't really sure what to consider the men who were currently in charge of the young Winchesters. Were the kids in danger, or weren't they? The men could truly be guardians, after what had happened in his life, Bobby believed in that kind of thing. They could be enemies trying to get to John. The only thing was, Dean hadn't conveyed any warning signals during that phone call. In fact, he had expressed the desire to _help _the wounded man. Unless the kid was totally off his rocker, which wouldn't be typical, then Bobby had no reason _not _to trust these men. After all, didn't they say that kids were the best judge of character? He sighed as he turned off of the highway. If Dean trusted these guys, then most likely Bobby could too. And if Samantha, who had an uncanny knack for reading people, felt safe, then what was there to worry about?

Ten minutes later, Bobby was ready to eat his words in a hurry. As it turned out, the town had about a half dozen motels, and Bobby had checked all but two.

The first two only had single beds, mostly truckers had checked in, and no customer had been traveling with more than themselves.

The next motel was so crappy that Bobby didn't have to worry about checking with the front desk—apparently guests were supposed to help themselves—and there was no way Dean would let his sister stay in _that _rat-infested flea joint.

The fourth motel he checked; he had to pry apart two young teens who were completely enamored with each other before they even realized that he had been ringing that stupid little bell for two minutes straight. When he got past their breathy apologies, they told him that they hadn't had any vacant rooms since that morning, and from the looks of things, they wouldn't have any vacancies in the near future. That left two motels; the one Bobby was parking his truck near now, and the one on the outskirts of town. Bobby hope they weren't that far out.

This motel had a blasted security gate that had to be opened before Bobby could even get into the building. And all the doors were on the _inside _of the establishment. Pretty backwards for a motel, but if the kid had managed to get their little group into this joint; he'd have a good thing going for him. Only somebody who really had business here would bother with the check-in process. The place was more like a mini-hotel (wasn't that what a m-otel was anyways?) and Bobby found himself hoping that this was where the Winchesters were holed up.

The front desk clerk was nearly asleep. Bobby didn't blame her, it was nearly four in the morning. So he rapped loudly on the metal gate, earning himself some amusement as he watched the clerk jolt to attention.

"Er..yes sir?" the clerk asked, sleepily rubbing at her eyes. She was in her late thirties, if Bobby had to guess. Just the motherly age, perhaps she was an aunt. From the looks of her, she wouldn't respond as well to Bobby's charming as she would John's, so Bobby opted for a different tactic. _Empathy. _

"Good morning, ma'am." Bobby took his cap off, running a hand through his hair for good measure. "I was supposed to meet my son at the motel down the way, but—I think his mom got confused, she never was very good with a map—" Bobby chuckled softly, "and she might have dropped him off here. Is there any way I can check?"

He had her at "son". There was no doubt. Her expression softened—not that it was harsh before, just sleepy—and she smiled at Bobby.

"Your son, is he young?"

Bobby shook his hand in a "so-so" motion. "A little, uh, new to the world, can we say. Not used to bein' alone, and it's already so late as it is…"

The security gate clicked open with a loud buzz. Bobby smiled cordially and stepped through, making his way to the counter. The clerk—Amanda, according to her tag—slid a book over to him. "If he's here, he would have had to sign in."

Bobby swallowed, thinking fast. If one of the men had checked in, he would have no way of knowing what name they would have used, fake or real, he had no idea who they were. "Well, he was with a friend, and I don't know which of 'em checked in—"

"I thought you said you didn't want him to be alone?" Amanda asked. Not judging, just curious. Too tired to put together pieces of a story that sounded as holey as Swiss Cheese looked.

"Alone as in…well, I can't say as I trust the kid. I never met him, see. His mom, she knows him…but to put it gently" Bobby softened his tone, "she never was too bright when it came to picking characters. I mean, she married me so…"

Amanda grinned. "I dunno, you don't seem so bad. Besides," she tapped the roster, "it doesn't hurt to check."

Bobby smiled back. "You're right." He scanned down the names on the roster, bypassing female names (all two of them) and old-sounding names like George and Harry. Finally, he hit what, judging by tonight's circumstances, would be called the jackpot. _Sam Novak. _He wasn't sure about the Novak part—where would the kid have come up with _that _one—but settled for the shortened version of Samantha. He tapped the name triumphantly.

"Sam Novak. Should be him, used his mom's last name."

Amanda nodded slowly. "You would know better than me. Room 205, second hallway on the left."

Bobby nodded and shot one parting grin at Amanda. "Thank you ma'am."

She grinned back with a smile that would have been dazzling if it weren't for the fact that her whole face was glazed with sleep.

"No problem!" And she immediately went back to dozing on the desk.

Bobby snickered softly, heading down the hall that Amanda had directed him to. There was no way he could be sure that "Sam Novak" would be Dean, but it was the only lead he'd had for the entire town. It was nearing 4:15 a.m., and every moment spent searching was precious time away from those kids he loved enough to be considered his own.

He trudged up to the prescribed door, noted the dull brass numerals on the fading wood, and nodded. 205. This was it. _Please have left me somethin', anythin' to go on, kid. _He looked around, felt on top of the trim, scanned the cracks for any clues. Finally, he dropped onto his hands and knees, preparing to check for light under the doorway, or sound, anything that would let him know he was on the right track.

And there, between the carpet and the door, was a piece of ribbon. A young girl's hair ribbon. It was thin, frayed, and barely visible, but it was there.

**A/N**

**So there it is—Bobby's finally found them. Help is on the way for Dean and Samantha. **

**Just a little teaser for the next chapter: Bobby's gonna meet the Winchester's mysterious guardians! But he feels that there's something strange about them that Dean and Samantha are too young and inexperienced to notice…**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N**

**Ah, the usual…thanks for reading, thanks for reviewing…and if you're reading this you have obviously stuck with it =) **

**To **_Frostygossamer_**—**_thanks for the suggestion. When I finish this fic I'll see if I can find a way to watch it. I grew up protecting/teaching my younger sister, becoming an adult a little too fast, both of us did, so yeah, I guess it's kinda ingrained into my mind to make it work like this. But trust me—my mind can be a lot worse! I'm planning on showing you guys just how much worse in my next fic…Sammy's hands are gonna be full with what I'm gonna put Dean through…I'm working on the first chapter to that now, while I'm working on this one. _

_And I really look forward to your reviews—they let me know how I'm doing; kinda keep me in check! I know I pushed off Bobby finding poor Dean and Samantha, but I didn't really wanna rush it, I just couldn't quite get into the feel of it—that's how the schmoozing came about! I'm glad you enjoyed it though. Bobby meets up with the kids this chapter, I promise!_

**Disclaimer: Are these REALLY necessary? I mean, who demands we use one anyway? Wouldn't it be kind of obvious that if we're **_**here**_**, *taps computer screen* we don't own anything *points to Hollywood* **_**there**_**? Oh well. I don't own anything. There. Happy? Good.**

**Oh—and I found myself editing an already published chapter…*thwacks self on back of head* Stupid moron. **

**This chapter is gonna be really long. It's to make up for making you guys wait for an update. **

Bobby let out a sigh of relief when he saw Samantha's hair ribbon. Dean had remembered to leave a nondescript trail. _Good boy. _He lifted his hand to knock on the door and almost fell in as the door swung open quickly.

"Bobby Singer?" A handsome man in a God-awful trench coat and lop-sided tie peered at him with bright, steely sapphire eyes. Bobby nodded hesitantly.

"Who's askin'?"

The man blinked. "I am."

Bobby fought the urge to roll his eyes. _Idjits these days…_He leaned around the man to look into the room and spied Dean sitting cross-legged on the motel bed next to a long lump of something dark.

"Can I come _in_?" Bobby pried, nearly knocking the man over as he barreled past, not waiting for an answer. He heard the door click shut behind him, but only had eyes for the young boy.

"Dean? Kid, talk to me!"

Dean sprang off the bed as if he had been struck with a hot poker. "Bobby!" he ran halfway to the man, and then stopped abruptly. "Um…glad you could come."

Bobby eyed the nervous twitching of the boy's fists. _Clench, unclench—repeat_. Bobby frowned. It was clear the boy's first instinct had been to hug the man he recognized as being a near father figure—but the blasted Winchester streak of pride stubbornly stepped in the way. Bobby however, was a Singer; not a Winchester. Singers held no such pride. Well, not when it came to _kids _anyway. He wrapped a reassuring arm around the boy's shoulders, and felt Dean's form melt into the strength that he offered.

"I'm fine, so's Samantha. She's just a little sleepy." Dean looked up at Bobby, green eyes still sparkling despite all that seemed to have taken place today.

"That's good Dean. Tell me what happened." He tried to keep one eye on Dean, the other on the strange man in the trench coat. _What was the man's problem, anyway? No one likes bein' stared at! _Bobby fumed carefully.

"No, Bobby! You gotta help—"

"You _tell me _what _happened!_" Bobby used his best drill sergeant voice. There that pride got in the way again, makin' it so Dean wouldn't tell Bobby the _facts_, worrying about someone else rather than himself, as usual. He cursed John, hurt as he may be right now, for instilling such a sense of duty into the young boy.

"If I tell you, will you fix him? Where's your med kit!" Dean rambled in a very un-Dean-like manner.

"Facts, boy, and you have my word."

Dean nodded, leaving Bobby's side to scramble up onto the bed next to the dark lump.

"Castiel broke into our house, warned me that Sam would be coming, Dad and Maggie got into a fight about me and Samantha and then Maggie shot John! Sam tried to help us and he got shot in the head, but somehow he survived and then Cas got me and Samantha outta the house and Sam drove us until he passed out." Dean finished in a huff.

Bobby frowned. It didn't _sound _like a story, and Dean wasn't into telling tall tales unless he was trying to amuse Samantha. So that left fact—even if those facts were a bit muddled, and perhaps missing a few words here and there. He looked to the man with the wide-eye syndrome for confirmation. The man nodded, once.

"So you're gonna help Sam?" Dean prompted, effectively stopping Bobby from asking which male was Sam (which by the way, was _way _too close to "Samantha") and which was Castiel—or was it Cas? And just _what _kind of name was Castiel? He took to presuming the strange man was Cas—and the wounded one was Sam. Which meant that the still, lifeless lump was…Bobby sucked in a shallow breath. Here he was with two kids, and a muddled story that left more questions than he believed Dean to have the answers to…he wasn't sure that he could handle a corpse right now. He would if circumstance called for it, for Dean's sake—but if he had to bet money from where he was standing, he'd bet on the side that had the lump—or Sam, if that was it—checking into the morgue.

"Bobby?" Dean tried again. The young boy's soft voice broke through Bobby's thoughts, and he swore softly. He'd taken too long to answer Dean, and now the boy was worried.

"Sure, Dean. I'm gonna help him."

He stepped out of the motel room, speeding down the hall, happy to find the attendant too asleep to register his passing through. He propped the security gate open with a large rock he found settled into the sidewalk's foliage, and dug through his truck until he had the first aid duffel in hand. He was back in front of the motel room door—still wondering _how _the four travelers had gotten to the motel without a CAR—before you could say "exorcise". The door opened before he could knock, just like last time, and Bobby shook his head at Castiel and the strange feeling of déjà vu before brushing past him once again.

He dropped the bag onto the small kitchenette table that someone had courteously tossed into the middle of the room. Then he removed his baseball cap, fumbling around until he found a light switch that he hoped would turn on an overhead. _Damn motels and their damned electricity_, Bobby fumed, cursing what little light the puny bedside lamps produced.

When the light flickered on, bathing the room in a pale white glow, Dean blinked at the sudden intrusion. Castiel—the _idjit!—_stared directly into the bright bulbs as if they were the object of a miracle. Bobby plopped his cap back onto his head and shoved the anxious gut feelings aside. He took two steps toward the bed, covering the distance easily. He felt Castiel breathing down his neck, literally, as he reached a hand out toward the wounded lump that was finally beginning to show signs of looking like a man.

"Sam?"

Bobby's hand hovered above the man's mouth, relieved to feel hot puffs of breath hitting his palm. As if the man felt Bobby's presence—and maybe he had—he shifted, pulling his head toward the source of sound that was calling him towards consciousness. Bobby nearly jerked his hand back in shock, muffling a gasp just before it escaped his lips. There in the pale face of the young man before him, Bobby saw _John_. The dark hair, the strong set of the scruffy jaw, the mouth—_Winchester traits. _But then the man opened his eyes, and Bobby got the full picture.

Soft brown eyes clouded with pain, fear; shaggy chocolate brown hair that was still damp. Dean caught sight of the movement and popped back to Sam, effectively blocking Bobby's view.

"Sam!" Dean burst out loudly. Bobby side-stepped just in time to catch sight of a soft, double-dimpled grin that was gone as quickly as it had appeared. But still, it had been enough.

"Hey buddy." Sam whispered. The words were said with pain, but it held the characteristic rumble. The gravely Winchester rumble. The body, the movement (what little he had seen) was all John's. Bobby had helped patch John up enough to recognize a injured Winchester when he saw one. But it was the even features, _angelic _features, the smile—that threw him. _So much like Mary. _He'd seen the picture—the one John had shown him—of Mary. He'd seen it just once, but that was enough. The boy, kid, man, whatever Sam was—was definitely a Winchester. But _how? _John didn't have siblings that he knew of, none this young. John was too young to have a boy this old—he looked to be about twenty-one—and no siblings meant no nephews either. A distant cousin, perhaps? But why would he look like Mary too?

Bobby groaned, albeit inwardly, and ran a hand over his face. Questions, the many that he had, could wait. An injured man couldn't. Bobby gently pushed Dean away.

"Let me do it, son."

Dean nodded and plumped back to sit on his heels, chewing on his bottom lip nervously.

"Sam?" Bobby tried again. The man wrenched his eyes away from Dean, narrowing in on Bobby. The eyes held a glint, a dangerous one, and Bobby realized that he would, as usual, have to narrate the entire process so that the man wouldn't get skittish.

"Sam? My name is Bobby. I'm a friend of Dean's. I'm gonna help ya, 'kay?"

Sam nodded, the shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes.

"Good. I'm just gonna look at your head here—" he reached for Sam, slowly. With more strength than Bobby was planning on giving Sam credit for, the man jerked away, rocketing to the far side of the bed. Startled, Dean jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding a close encounter with one of Sam's long limbs. Bobby eyed Sam up and down in a new light. Long arms. Broad shoulders and chest. Fit, very fit. Proportioned. Long legs—_very _long legs. Jeez, this guy was probably six-foot-four at the smallest. Throwing knife. _Nice knife, kid._ Large, heavy boots. Hunting boots. Wait…KNIFE? Bobby jerked his eyes back to Sam's waist. He hadn't seen every species of human on the planet, but he was _pretty sure _that none of them were designed so that a _knife _belonged where he saw this one, lodged hilt deep in the hip. _That's gonna be fun. _

"B—Bobby?"

Bobby jumped at the sound of Sam's voice. "Yeah?"

"I'm fine, really. Just—I just need to sleep for a while. Warm up. K…'kay?"

Bobby nodded, noticing that the man was wet, his clothes stunk to high heaven, and he was trembling all over. Shivering. "Fine. You're fine. Sure. Everybody who has a knife in their leg says they're fine. Usually right, too."

By the way Sam rolled his eyes, Bobby's sarcasm hadn't gone unnoticed. His eyes were bright. Fever bright. _Crap on a fiddle. _

"I just wanna check ya out, kid, okay?"

Sam shook his head. _No. Not okay? Why the hell not? _

"I'm fine."

"I know. Just…humor me, all right?"

Sam rolled his eyes again (was that something he did often, like a trademark?) and winced. _Yup—definitely gotta check the kid's head_. He walked around the bed until he was at Sam's side. The man tracked his every move. His hand hovered near the hilt of the knife, and Bobby frowned. Did the kid really think he could yank it out of his hip and stab him with it?

"Forget it." Bobby warned, and Sam flinched. "Chances are, if you coulda gotten that thing outta your flank, you'da done it by now and I never woulda found the wound cuz I'm guessing you'da tried to take care of it. So cut the warrior charade, boy, and let me help you, dammit!"

Bobby had started using his "don't mess with me, John" tone. Sam still looked like a kicked puppy that had been herded into a corner, but his hand fell away from the knife to lay limply to the bed, so Bobby took that as a win.

"Just…let me…_help_. Okay?" Bobby looked deep into the wounded chocolate eyes. He'd always had a soft spot for younglings, and this one, stranger or not, was no different. He looked all of five years old with his wide eyes and shaggy bangs. He wanted so badly to remove the hurt the he saw there. The hurt, was that _sorrow_?, and distrust. All the things that he'd seen in men who had put their trust in humanity, and humanity had failed them. Humanity had failed Sam, apparently. Suddenly Bobby didn't just want to heal Sam, he wanted to change Sam's mind. He wanted to restore Sam's faith in his fellow beings, instill a little bit of trust into those beautifully sad young eyes.

"Sam…" This time the admonition didn't come from Bobby.

Castiel had stepped up to the bed, a hand on Sam's ankle. Sam's eyes flickered up to meet Castiel's gaze, then over to Dean, back to Bobby. They glanced over at Samantha, curled up into a little pink ball on the other bed, and landed back on Bobby. Dean crawled across the bed, sitting Indian-style next to Sam's head. He put his head right up to Sam's, filling the man's vision with his imploring face.

"He's real gentle, Sammy. He helped my Daddy. He's better than those lame-o doctors at the ER, I promise. We'll fix you right up, you can play tag with Samantha and I—maybe even go swimming at the pool—I know I smelled chlorine when we came in."

Bobby smiled at Dean. Such a helpful young creature. The boy put his hand on Sam's forehead, brushing the sweaty bangs out of his eyes.

"You're burning, Sammy, that's gotta hurt. You don't want your brains scrambled, do you? I heard that they serve patients who have suffered from fevers as a delicacy at foreign restaurants cuz scrambled human brains tastes better than regular monkey."

Sam laughed softly, a light sound that Bobby knew came from Mary, not John. _Wait…what am I thinking? He's a stranger, not Winchester's son! Get that foolish notion outta your head, you stupid man, Bobby!_

But something kept insisting that he wasn't as stupid as he was telling himself he was. Of course, he wouldn't get any answers if the man died, but he couldn't guarantee that the man wouldn't die until the man agreed to let Bobby help.

Using his best no-nonsense tone, Bobby tried to reason with the man again.

"Lookie here, Sam. Either you let me help you, or I tie you down and put ya in a world of hurt! I didn't drive over here at odd hours of the night for my own health, ya know! And I'm lookin' forward to _breakfast _so the quicker we get started, the quicker you get to sleep, and the faster I get my food!"

"A hungry Bobby is a cranky Bobby." Dean chimed in helpfully. "I trusted you, Sam. Trust me on this. Trust Bobby."

Sam's eyes flitted from Dean to Bobby, then back to Dean. He nodded carefully. And just like that, Sam was out like a light; collapsed spread-eagle on the bed, shivering violently.

Bobby put a careful hand on Sam's forehead, feeling the unnatural heat that radiated from his skin. "That's right son. Rest easy, we'll take care of ya."

**I would have written more but ugggh my math paper isn't going to write itself. So there's that chapter—the next chapter will be healing poor Sammy—comfort is coming! Can't torture the poor guy for too long I guess. But I did put this in the ADVENTURE category as well—but that's all I can tell you without ruining it. Plus I'm gonna be going on a road trip next week (yikes!) so I've gotta save some creativity for all the bantering my sisters and I will be doing. I'll try to finish up this story before I go, then start my new story when I get back. Sound like a deal? Good. Not like I'm giving a choice, or anything…just…making you feel included =) Ain't that sweet of me…**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N**

**Hey everybody. I got all my work done early today. So I rewarded myself (more like you guys!) with some caffeine and another chapter. It's almost 5,000 words. It should hold you guys over in case I can't get anymore written for a while. Like I said…road trip. **

**Thanks Cold Kagome and Frostygossamer for your guys' instant feedback =) You're awesome.**

**And all my readers deserve a round of applause. You stick with all my sarcastic jerk-like behavior *claps in a non-patronizing way***

**Disclaimer: Nooooooo I don't own them! Geesh how many times do I gotta say it? Will I get in trouble if I DON'T? **

**CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This one I'm putting in here voluntarily. I'm no medical expert. Everything I know comes from survival courses, first aid books, and movies/shows. And everyone around me is probably praying that they never have to have me operate on them…**

Dean sat down near Samantha's sleeping form and watched apprehensively while Bobby tromped to the tiny bathroom to wash his hands. _Bobby's here, Bobby's gonna help…_Dean kept repeating to himself, one hand playing with a stray curl that bounced up and down every time Samantha took a breath. But now that help was here, Dean wasn't so sure he wanted to hang around and watch. _It's called blood, Dean, you're gonna be seein' a lot of it. Get used to it. _His dad's voice rang through his head. He didn't think that his dad had ever said those _exact _words, but it sounded like something he would say, and that was enough to convince Dean that sticking around would help beef up his "man card." Yeah—he'd stick around…for Sam's sake.

Bobby deftly began grabbing items out of his first aid duffel, setting aside a carton of rock salt (whatever that was for) and a flask that Dean had never seen Bobby drink from before. A plastic garbage bag, rolls of gauze, antiseptic, and medical tape were tossed swiftly over Bobby's shoulder to land onto the bed next to Sam. Meanwhile, Cas stood a hairbreadth away from Bobby, watching the older man curiously. A few of the tossed items narrowly missed Castiel, and Dean had a hard time thinking that Bobby hadn't done that intentionally.

A trip to the bed was made, where Bobby assessed Sam's current condition. Dean tried to make out what Bobby was saying, but the man was mumbling under his breath. He was wearing his "making mental checklists" face, and Dean knew better than to interrupt him to ask what he was talking about. Castiel, however, had no such knowledge. On Bobby's trip back to the table for more supplies, Castiel found out the hard way.

"What are you doing?" Castiel prompted, his mouth centimeters away from Bobby's ear. The package of needles Bobby was holding fell to the floor as Bobby jumped in surprise.

"_Dammit, _boy!" Bobby griped as he bent down to pick them up. Castiel looked around, perhaps wondering if Bobby had been cursing at someone else. When Bobby stood up again, it appeared to be that he realized that his anger was lost on Castiel. Shaking his head, Bobby handed Castiel a glass bottle.

"Make yurself useful and get him to drink some of this."

Castiel took the bottle gently, staring at it with a slight smirk on his face.

"Well?" Bobby huffed. "Did I give ya an order, or did I give ya an order?"

Castiel nodded, stepping up to the bed next to Sam. He waved the bottle in Sam's pained face.

"Here."

Dean chewed on his bottom lip. _Did he really think that was going to work…?_

"Drink, Samuel." Castiel tried again, nearly hitting Sam's lax jaw with the neck of the bottle.

The unconscious man didn't even stir. Dean looked to Bobby, who was staring, slack-jawed, at Castiel's unique bed-side manners.

"Please tell me there aren't more where he came from." Bobby grouched as he passed Dean.

"Would you not rather he remain unconscious?" Castiel asked after another short period of failure.

"Sure. That'd be great. But none of my patients have ever been _that _easy, and I'd rather the kid drink himself to sleep so we can get this done right."

Castiel nodded, Bobby's logic having apparently made sense to him. It did _not _make sense to Dean. He could remember the nights—or, more appropriately, early mornings—when John came home from Maggie's bar, swaying obnoxiously and mumbling incoherently until Dean managed to help him stumble up the stairs, where his father would fall into bed, jacket and boots still on, dead asleep. Then he'd sleep—and sleep and sleep—until mid-afternoon the next day, when Dean had to either take Samantha outside or keep her quiet and busy while John gorged himself on coffee and aspirin. And it had all stemmed from bottles exactly like the one Castiel was holding in his hand.

What befuddled Dean was, why would Bobby want to put poor Sam through that? Couldn't Bobby see that Sam was already in enough pain?

But Dean was a good little soldier. He always followed orders. He stepped in to help when other soldiers couldn't carry out an order on their own. So like the good soldier that he was, he slid quietly away from Samantha's side, and crawled across the other bed to sit on his knees next to where Sam lay. "Let me try, Cas."

Bobby's head snapped up, eyes wide, jaw working furiously. "Ya sure ya wanna do that kid?"

Dean shrugged. A million thoughts swarmed in his mind, thoughts he wanted to voice to Bobby, but couldn't. _No. I don't' want to. But Cas can't, don't you see? Cas can't do anything, he's just a kid in a man's body—he's scared just like I am, Bobby, just like you are. I know there's something you're not telling me. I need you to know that you can tell me. I gotta prove this to you. You can trust me, I can handle anything you can! _

But he settled for a lame answer instead. "I never do anything I don't want to do." But he could tell that Bobby knew he was lying. Heck, Bobby had an internal lie detector, he knew when _anyone _was lying. And, not wanting to call Dean's bluff, Bobby conceded.

"All right. You can help. Do everything I say, and if I tell ya to stop, or look away, ya do it, ya hear?"

Dean nodded firmly, and he was rewarded with a ghost of a smile from Bobby. He took the bottle from Castiel's loose grasp. But as he held the bottle of whiskey—Jack Daniels Black Label Old No.7, the good stuff—he noted, he wondered if volunteering his help had been a mistake.

For starters—to put it simply, Sam was huge. Maneuvering any part of him while he was _awake _was hard enough. While sleeping would be a nightmare.

He looked like a fighter. What if, in his groggy state of mind, he saw Dean as a threat and tried to take him out? Dean was not a _lightweight_—not for his age, anyway—but one solid thwack from Sam's gi-normous hand would most likely put Dean down for the count.

But amidst his concerns, there was something calming about the task before him. He was finally helping—finally making himself _useful_—sure, Samantha needed him most of the time, but that was his job. That was the only thing he was good for, in most people's opinion. But now…now Bobby was relying on him to help Sam, because Castiel, the only other adult in the room, couldn't. And Dean wasn't about to let Bobby—or Sam_—_down.

So the only challenge he faced was waking Sam up. After he roused the man, it should be easy. It was a bottle, after all—how hard could that be? He had bottle-fed Samantha millions of times. _Millions_ of times…the memories came rushing back to him.

_Eight-month old Samantha was crying—nearly screaming—she had been for the past two minutes and it didn't look like she'd be quieting down any time soon. Seated in the boxcar of a nameless train, Dean watched as John stirred restlessly. He had finally fallen asleep just under ten minutes ago, after the train had finally started moving fast enough that John's cries of pain wouldn't risk being heard. Dean didn't understand why the water had hurt his father so much. It was just water, not peroxide like John usually used, so why did it hiss, and steam, and make John yell? It had broken Dean's heart to watch his father in so much pain—especially since Dean had no idea who had hurt him. _

_Dean knew that if Samantha kept crying like this, John would wake up—wake up and feel more pain—and Dean didn't think he could bear seeing his father like that ever again. _

_**She's probably hungry.**__ Dean couldn't find any other explanation for Samantha's crying. Dean dug into his backpack and retrieved Samantha's bottle. There was some formula that a nice sympathetic lady at the last diner had given John when he couldn't get Samantha to quiet while they were eating dinner._

_Dean grabbed the canteen of water that John had used to clean his wounds; he poured a small amount into the Samantha's bottle. He added a scoop of the formula and closed the lid, shaking the bottle well. He was hesitant to give the water to Samantha—it had caused John so much pain—but there was no reaction to the formula, and Samantha wasn't bleeding, so Dean could only hope he was doing the right thing. _

_Tipping the bottle up to Samantha's lips, he coaxed the tip into her mouth. The liquid flowed into her chubby baby cheeks, but Samantha refused to swallow. She spit the liquid out at Dean instead. He made a disgusted face—boy it smelled _nasty_, he could see why Samantha didn't' want it!—but he knew she needed to eat. He tried again, pushing the bottle deeper into her little mouth, pouring more liquid in. This time, he rubbed her throat a little, and Samantha swallowed with no hesitation. She even giggled a little bit, and Dean took that as a good sign. He continued to feed her until the bottle was dry. The boxcar was bouncy, and a little rough, but it the motion calmed Samantha enough that she fell asleep, plunging the boxcar into quiet that was much needed as far as Dean could tell. It was their first time on a train—and if the circumstances had been better—Dean was sure it would have been at least a little bit fun. It was better than riding around in a bus while John waited for his car to be fixed up…_

His car. Dean snapped back to the present, having made more than one revelation while he was daydreaming. The water—it was in the same kind of flask that Bobby now had on the bed—he was planning on hurting Sam with it! It would bubble and steam just like it had with John! Dean pushed frantic panic down; Bobby wouldn't purposely hurt Sam, would he? But it still gave him reason to be wary. And the car—didn't John use to drive a car just like Sam had? An Impala? Dean couldn't quite remember; it had been so long since they had ridden in anything but Maggie's truck. He put that question on the backburner as well, hoping to get a chance to ask Bobby about the car and the water at a later date.

For now, he focused on Sam. The element of surprise—that's what John called it—was what Dean was planning on using. He hadn't given Samantha any notice; Sam wouldn't get any either. What they didn't know, they couldn't fuss about. He would make Sam drink it just like he had gotten Samantha to nearly four years ago. He unscrewed the black bottle cap and put it in his pocket. Gently, he grabbed Sam's jaw, the unconscious man put up no struggle as Dean opened his mouth. _Here goes_, Dean cringed, pouring a measured dose of the whiskey into the unconscious man's throat.

"Dean! He'll choke—!" Bobby gasped in horror. Dean shook his head and put his hand on Sam's throat. He massaged the tense, chorded muscles, just like he had for Samantha. Sure enough, Sam swallowed on pure instinct. A small moan followed, and bleary eyes blinked open to stare at Dean, before widening in shock. Tentatively, Sam stuck his tongue out, tasting the remains of liquid on his chapped lips. He made a face, and Dean had a hard time controlling a giggle. It looked like quite the "bitch face." The type of face that said that the wearer wasn't sure whether they should laugh, cry, yell, or throw up. Maggie wore it all the time, and it was a face that Dean had learned to associate with women…bitchy women. Dean was guessing that since Sam was wearing said face, Sam wanted to throw up—and he _really _did not want to have to learn how to clean grown-man spit-up off of his clothes. Who knows how much would end up coming out of the sasquatch's stomach.

"It's whiskey…" Dean filled in the blanks for Sam.

Sam nodded weakly, teeth chattering as he spoke. "F-for the..unggggh…p-pain—thanks…D-dean."

"Sure." Dean smiled reassuringly. "But you have to drink more, I think."

Sam blanched further, if that was even possible.

"Hold everything!" Bobby called. Dean recognized the urgency in Bobby's voice and had the good sense to dive out of the way as Sam bolted upright in bed, immediately curling himself over the waste bucket that appeared in front of him. The shot of whiskey, and whatever else Sam might have had in his stomach (which didn't appear to be much) was ejected violently into the bucket. Sam retched until there was nothing left, alternately panting and dry heaving so hard that Dean was afraid he might crack a rib, or throw up his stomach, if that was possible. Dean hesitated to think that the tiny sounds emitting themselves from Sam's throat were actually _whimpers. _Bobby's hand rubbed gently between Sam's sweaty shoulder blades. It seemed to calm Sam a little, and Dean filed that information away for later referencing.

Finally the awful episode appeared to be over, but Sam remained slumped, one hand on his thigh, the other wrapped carefully around his stomach. Bobby put the trash can aside, moving a gentle hand from Sam's back to his shoulder, pushing him lightly back onto the bed.

"Come on, kid. We gotta get ya horizontal before ya hurt yourself more."

"So that's a negative on the whiskey, then…" Dean sighed.

"And I haven't been anywhere near a hospital to nab some of the local anesthetics." Bobby lamented, casting a sorrowful glance at Sam's pained face. He was flush with fever and exertion, a fine sheen of sweat coated his body even though he was shivering. Dean was sure that poor Sammy hadn't even gotten the chance to get dry from the rain.

"Down more whiskey, or rough it. Whatcha wanna do, kid?" Bobby asked gently.

Sam's eyes flitted around the room, making eye contact with no one and everyone at the same time. _He looks like a cornered, wounded animal_. _Why is the world so unfair? Why didn't __**Maggie **__get hurt? _Panic briefly settled in Dean's stomach as he thought about John, bleeding out on the floor at home. Hopefully the ambulance had arrived in enough time to save him.

Bobby watched conflicting emotions chase each other across Dean's face. The boy really was too young to help with this kind of a task. But he wanted to be useful, so who was Bobby to say no? Dean had obviously developed some form of attachment to Sam, who seemed like a nice man, and Bobby didn't feel right keeping the Dean away from him. Heaven knows that the boy needed people to look up to—people who were better than Bobby, better than John, even—and if this Sam was going to be one of those people, that was fine by Bobby. This Castiel character, on the other hand…Bobby eyed the strange man. One of the two strangers would have some explaining to do, and Bobby wasn't up for making Sam do much talking for a few days. So that left Castiel…yeah, like _that _was gonna work. Bobby chuckled inwardly, Castiel was such a nerd. Couldn't even rouse a man to take a drink. Speaking of…Bobby paused his inner dialogue to observe Sam weakly nabbing the bottle from Dean. The kid wasn't gonna…not after puking…Bobby groaned as Sam downed half the bottle in a few long swigs.

"I swear, boy, if that comes back up—" Bobby sighed.

Sam looked at Bobby, stared him dead in the eyes. "It won't."

Bobby nodded his affirmation; waited until the kid's eyes started drooping before laying a garbage bag next to his torso.

"Castiel—help me get me outta his clothes, okay?"

Bobby wished he had a camera to take a snapshot of Castiel's wide-eyed horror. "Are you…sure?"

Bobby frowned. "I don't say anything I don't mean." Okay, so maybe that wasn't _quite _true—but it got the point across. Castiel's hands hovered over Sam hesitantly. _This ain't gonna get us anywhere…_Bobby let out a frustrated huff.

"Aw, hell." He griped, grabbing the knife out of the scabbard on his belt. With one swift, careful swipe, Bobby had Sam's shirts cut straight down the center. _Geez, how many __**layers**__ does this kid have on? _He managed to peel the soggy cotton off of the sweaty man's body, appalled to feel how high his temperature had risen in the short amount of time. _Headed right down scramble-brains road…_Infection was an obvious hazard, as was something like the flu or pneumonia, none of which Bobby _enjoyed _flushing out of anyone's system.

The jeans weren't much of a problem; slice down both pant legs and peel the fabric back—but Sam nearly screamed when Bobby accidentally jostled the knife wound. Bobby had to alternately cut and peel the denim away from the wounded site, and Sam had literally thrown a fit. Unconscious, mind you, the poor kid had drank himself to sleep and would be passed out from blood loss and exhaustion for a while anyway. But still, Sam had managed to fuss around enough that Dean had felt inclined to sit on Sam's legs to help hold him still—and Sam didn't appear to like that one bit. Castiel had just managed to catch Dean before Sam's bucking body threw him into the far wall—giving Bobby an up-close demonstration of just how much raw _strength _he possessed.

_Finally good for something!_ Bobby thought as he watched Castiel gently set Dean back on the bed, reassessing the situation. Sam was clad in only his boxers now (Bobby hated causing anyone embarrassment, but the knife wound was pretty damn close to some important equipment) Bobby eyed the kid from head to foot. Nice build, he'd clearly gotten some time to work on his tan. He'd be pretty handy around a farm, _or my junkyard, _Bobby wondered where THAT thought had come from…his height would make it hard to fit under cars and such, but the youthful muscle was obviously there. The kids looks wouldn't hurt either, maybe he'd see a few more women glancing his scrap yard's direction every now and then. _Yep, _Bobby assured himself, _I'm attached. Done-for. One look into that dewy, doe-eyed face and I'm a goner. _He'd never had sons of his own, probably never would—but if he had, he'd be might proud if one of them had turned out like Sam.

He used a gentle hand to probe around the injury site on Sam's head—there was plenty of blood, both dried and fresh—but head wounds bled to high heaven so he wasn't extremely worried. He didn't appear to have a concussion either, and for that Bobby was eternally grateful. What concerned him more was the way that Sam pressed his head into Bobby's hand. It wasn't just "leaning into the touch" like John would sometimes do when he was too far out of it to care. No, Sam actually pressed; or more like _jammed _his head into the hand that Bobby was running through his damp hair, as if Sam could maybe crawl into the hand, curl up, and hide from his pain. That, accompanied by a small sound—a peaceful, almost relaxed sound—that grumbled deep in the back of Sam's throat; nearly broke Bobby's heart. _Didn't the kid have __**anybody **__to help him out? A pat on the back, a friendly hug…people __**need **__human contact, reassurance! _Bobby's brain insisted, though he knew deep down from the way that he had been required to earn Sam's trust; Sam didn't have anyone who could—or maybe, would—provide for that need.

It was because of this, and the disappointed _whine_ Sam uttered when the contact was broken, that Bobby was reluctant to withdraw the hand that he knew he needed to patch Sam up.

Bobby poured a good dose of peroxide onto the gash on Sam's head, eliciting a long, loud moan from the man's throat. The bullet had just grazed him, hitting his left temple and slicing back a good three or four inches, but it wasn't deep enough to require stitches. Dean was watching intently, a pained look on his face.

"That's really hurting him, isn't it?"

Bobby nodded.

"Even though he's asleep?"

Bobby nodded again, concentrating too intensely on applying antibiotic cream to the gash to respond with a full sentence. The wound had pretty much stopped bleeding, so Bobby settled for folding a towel underneath of Sam's head and leaving the wound to air out a bit. He glanced at Dean again, who had fallen silent. The boy's face was screwed up in thought. Bobby didn't want to interrupt him, but he would need help—and Castiel didn't count. A tug on his pant leg wrenched him from his thoughts, and he cursed himself for getting distracted.

"Uncle Bobby?"

_Samantha. _

"Is Sammy gonna live?"

Bobby sighed for what felt like the millionth time. Why did kids always have to ask such difficult questions? Couldn't they ask about…cars? Or rainbows. Rainbows were easy to explain, weren't they?

Bobby settled for an answer that would hopefully satisfy the girl, but would allow no room for more questions. "He ain't gonna die on my clock."

"Wha' 'bout on Cas's clock?"

_Did she really have to prove me wrong? _Bobby huffed again, eyeing Castiel. "_Castiel_, doesn't have one."

The man yanked his gaze up to meet Bobby's when he heard his name.

"Yeah, you—Lazy Boy. Can you get the little one something to eat, or somethin'? Keep her occupied?"

"Don' wanna be occ-ah-pied." Samantha grouched. "I wanna help Sammy."

_Damned Winchesters and their damned heroism! _Castiel was still staring at Bobby, waiting for further instruction.

"You wanna help Sammy, huh?"

Samantha nodded.

"Fine." He plucked her up and set her down by Sam's head. "Ya watch his eyes, Samantha. If he blinks—do you know what blinkin' is—if he blinks, ya let me know, 'kay?"

Samantha nodded affirmatively.

"Dean…" Bobby grabbed both of Sam's wrists and wrapped them loosely together with a strip of one of Sam's many shirts. "You hold his hands above his head, got that? Hold 'em tight."

Dean nodded, happy to have something to do, and crawled over to sit next to his sister, gently taking Sam's large hands in his own. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand through the t-shirt for a better grip.

"Castiel?" he waited for the man's brain to catch up before continuing. "Hold his legs down. And ya hold him good. This is gonna hurt like a mother—" he caught himself before defiling the young ones' ears.

Bobby had his hand darn near ready when Samantha made an excited noise.

"He bwinked!"

_Was that a "he blinked"? _Bobby cringed. _Crap on a cracker. _

"Wha…oomph" Sam struggled weakly against Dean's grasp, gasping in pain when Castiel's grip on Sam's legs reminded him that he was restrained.

"Keep him steady, Dean." Bobby admonished sternly. Dean nodded. Bobby patted Sam's shoulder gently, his fingers feeling like they got burned when they came in contact with Sam's bare skin.

"Settle down, son, we gotcha."

Sam's eyes met Bobby's frantically, but it was clear by the way that Sam's movements were becoming sluggish that he was losing his grasp on lucidity. Glassy, feverish chocolate eyes slowly slid shut in exhaustion. They flew open when Samantha started running her chubby little hands through his sweaty hair. Bobby wasn't sure if he should tell Samantha to stop, or keep going. Little children didn't quite have full control of their motor functions, and he didn't want her hands straying near the gash, but her touch seemed to be calming Sam considerably. Samantha grinned, giggling softly.

"It okay, puppy. We's have ta be good for Uncle Bobby."

_She named him Puppy. _Bobby smirked. Sam had better not catch her calling him that when he's fully awake.

The room was eerily quiet as the small group waited for Sam to fall asleep again. It was probably hard for him while they were all watching, but Bobby knew that pain and exhaustion would win out over embarrassment—it happened every time.

"I thinks he's asleep." Samantha pronounced quietly. Bobby nodded; Sam's breathing had finally evened out. Samantha stopped playing with Sam's hair and moved to stroke his cheek.

"Samantha…why don't you keep playing with his hair, okay?" Dean frowned, and Bobby was of the same opinion—he wasn't so sure Sam would like her petting his face.

"But…" Samantha eyed Bobby suspiciously, perhaps hoping he would intervene. Not always into playing the peacemaker, Bobby did.

"Do as your brother says."

Samantha pouted.

_Now is NOT the time for this…_

Dean came to the rescue again. "Samantha, I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that puppies like their fur being pet better than their nose."

Samantha cocked her head. "So I pets his hair again?"

Dean nodded encouragingly.

"But Dean, you's don't read books."

Dean had the good sense to remain silent when he saw that Samantha had resumed petting Sam's hair. Her head was bent down near Sam's her lips near his ear. She was muttering something to him, Bobby wasn't sure what, wasn't sure he wanted to know either. From the look on her face, she was lamenting her brother's power over her. Dean pulled his bottom lip inbetween his teeth again as Bobby frowned, his patience finally beginning to wear thin. He really, _really _wanted this night to be over. He hated driving in the rain. He hated fretting about the Winchesters, especially while driving in the rain. He hated hotels, motels, and any other thing that ended with "tel" and usually handed out hundreds of cockroaches as complimentary roomies. He hated blood, hated needles, fishing wire, antiseptic, and gauze. He hated what he was going to have to do next the most.

Sam was out cold, Castiel and Dean were still in position. It was now or never. He wrapped a hand carefully around the hilt of the knife. It was deep—worryingly deep. Bobby had seen this knife before; Maggie kept it in her boot, practiced throwing it at the dart board on her spare time. And boy did she know how to use it. Which meant it had hit its intended target, and had burrowed itself deep. The blade, from what Bobby could remember, had thick barbs that angled toward the knife's hilt. Designed to go in easy; inflict maximum damage on the way out. Which naturally meant maximum pain as well.

Bobby closed his eyes. Counted to three. Pulled.

None of them were able to react fast enough. Bobby was nearly one-hundred-percent positive that Sam's agonized scream would be heard in the next town ten miles over. When his ears finally stopped ringing, and he opened his eyes, Bobby's heart sank. Dean sprawled next to Sam on the bed, out cold. Castiel was sitting dazedly on his bum, looking as if he'd been kicked by a horse. A lump most likely named Samantha could be seen under the covers of the opposite bed; Bobby guessed she wouldn't be making an appearance for a while. What was worse, Bobby realized, was that his hand was empty. The knife was still lodged in Sam's bleeding hip. Which only meant one thing…it had gotten stuck in the bone.

Bobby ran a hand over his face, assessing the damage Sam might have done to himself—he'd certainly done a number on everyone else. His wrists were no longer bound, Bobby guessed one of the flailing appendages was what had knocked Dean out. Sam was curled in on himself, shaking like a leaf, eyes wide and frantic, mumbling incoherently. Bobby was dead certain that one of the few real phrases that tumbled out of the pained babbling was "help me". Bobby heaved another long-suffering sigh. It was going to be one very _long _night.

**Let me know what you think…I know you will =)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N**

**MIGHT be able to squeak this chapter in before I leave. MIGHT. If you're reading this—I managed to. I'm thinking the story's gonna wrap up in a couple of chapters…I've got an idea for either a Dean story or young adult John—or Castiel, that would work too. OLD Castiel, not the weird new one. Sammy would work, but I promised I'd be fair and not torture one brother more than once before the other got a turn. **

**Anyways…**

**Here's the next chapter. **

**DISCLAIMER: None. I wanna see what happens. **

"Well, that worked nicely." Bobby grunted, eyeing the bloody knife he now held in his hand. He had used Sam's breakdown as an opportunity—probably the only one he would get—and had pulled on the knife with all the strength he possessed. The sound of metal grinding against bone would be one that Bobby wouldn't forget for as long as he lived. After the grinding had halted, the squelching had began; that sound was only relatively less nauseating, and Bobby had carefully wrested the knife from Sam's hip without further ado. The bumbling idjit called "Castiel" had managed to snap into gear and clamp a strong hand over Sam's mouth before he could let loose another of those ear-piercing, gut-wrenching wails that was sure to wake the dead.

Bobby wasn't sure how to clean a bone wound. Pour holy water and alcohol in, stitch the man up, and hope for the best? That was Plan A, and Bobby was sticking to it. Bobby doubted Maggie's knife had any supernatural ties, but he'd learned it was better to be safe than sorry.

So he set the knife in the bathroom sink to clean later, and returned to find Castiel laying Dean gently on the spare bed. Samantha felt the weight shift and cautiously poked her head out from under the blankets like a small, pale turtle with a wig of curly hair on its head. Castiel stood over Dean, simply staring at the unconscious boy.

"CASTIEL!" Bobby snapped, effectively startling the man out of his trance. He turned steely eyes on Bobby.

"Yes?"

"You. Help me stitch 'im up. Then, I get some _answers._"

"Can you not talk and stitch at once?"

"It's not _me _I'm worried about."Bobby mumbled with a shake of his head, grabbing the whiskey and downing a shot. It was only _after _the alcohol was burning its way down his throat that he remembered that Sam had drank out of it just minutes ago. _Oh well. Alcohol kills germs, don't it…? _

"Hold him down, gently."

Castiel hurried to sit by Sam's head, lifting the man's torso into his lap. He wrapped his arms gently around Sam's neck and shoulders, clasping his hands together on Sam's chest, locking his grasp. Bobby threaded a needle and grabbed a towel to mop up the blood that was still slipping sluggishly out of the wound. The first pierce of the needle had Sam squirming. The third stitch set him sweating—again. By the sixth stitch, Castiel was having a hard time holding Sam down, and Bobby was rethinking the idea that he was going to get questions answered. Sam's shivering—or maybe it was trembling by now, Bobby wasn't quite sure—made it difficult for Bobby to stitch in neat, even rows like he was known for. But that didn't really matter, did it, when Bobby was nearly fist deep in blood and muscle? He tried to reason with himself that this was for the better good, but it nearly ripped his heart out to see the kid's sleeping face twisted in so much agony. He decided it was now or never, he needed a distraction and Castiel might be able to give it. Without so much as an intro, Bobby delved into the topic.

"How the hell did ya find the Winchesters, anyway?"

Castiel's head snapped up, and he pondered the question far longer than Bobby felt he needed to.

"Intuition." He finally said.

"What are you, a damn mother?"

Castiel quirked an eyebrow—the most Bobby had ever seen the man's face move—and sighed. "I had help, resources. Lots of them. But ultimately, it was Sam who found them."

"Okay, so what's yur point? What's in it for ya?"

Castiel frowned, tossing a small shrug. "Nothing. I don't need—fulfillment, in any way. It is my duty to protect Dean. It is Sam's duty to protect Samantha. We require no…payment."

Now it was Bobby's turn to frown, and he gave the task of re-threading the needle a bit more concentration than was actually required.

"So you two consider yourselves…what; guardians?"

Castiel nodded. Bobby's heart dropped like a lead brick. He'd been in the business long enough, he should have seen the clues, read the warning signs. He'd let his blasted emotion get in the way again.

"You're an angel, aren't ya." It wasn't a question. It was more of an accusation, and Castiel knew it.

"Yes. If that bothers you…we can go. But I will not abandon those children. We will always be nearby, ready…waiting."

"Waiting for WHAT?"

"Them to call us."

Bobby growled softly. "You're makin' no sense, boy."

Castiel huffed. "I am no _boy, _I am thousands of years old."

Bobby grimaced as if he were learning a new, particularly juicy cuss word. "Well, _that's _a sentence I've never heard before."

"Not aloud. But deep down, you have known. You are a hunter. You know we exist. You know that demons exist. We need to protect Samantha and Dean from the entities that oppose them."

"So that's how ya got here without the car? Ya _zapped _them?"

"Um…yes?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. _At least now I understand why he's such an emotionless NERD… _

"I'm not gonna tell ya to abandon the kids—they need all the help they can get. I just don't know…how're ya gonna explain this…to them?"

Dean lay on the bed, eyes firmly shut, stiff as a board. He'd heard Bobby and Castiel talking when he woke up, knew that whatever it was, Bobby wouldn't be telling Dean anytime soon.

"_You're an angel, aren't ya?" _

Dean swallowed, reining his questions in, keeping himself from shooting off the bed. _An angel? Castiel said he was sending a PUPPY. Puppies aren't angels…angels aren't puppies. What the hell? _

He knew Bobby would smack him for even thinking that word, but he didn't care. Not when it was his and Samantha's safety that Bobby and Castiel were so covertly discussing.

"_How're ya gonna explain this…to them?_"

Dean knew that now was his chance.

"Explain what?"

Both Bobby and Castiel jumped, heads whipping around to face Dean. Both of their expressions said "busted!" and if Dean hadn't been so angry, it would have been hilarious.

"Uh…Dean…it's…just something Cas and I were discussing."

"Don't lie to me Bobby." Dean used the same tone that Bobby had always used with him when he sensed Dean wasn't telling the full truth. Bobby's shoulders hunched, and Dean allowed a sly smirk to grace his lips.

"Are you guys trying to figure out how to tell me that he's an _angel_? Cuz dude, that's _old news." _

Castiel looked relieved, Bobby; even more confused.

"How the hell-?"

"The whole "telepathic transportation" thing was a dead give-away. I mean, we're not in _Star Trek_, or anything. And when he told me he could protect us…_bing._" Dean snapped his fingers."I was onto him."

Castiel nodded, even though Dean could tell that he had _no _idea what he was talking about. "Smart boy."

"Sure is." Bobby agreed, turning back to Sam. Dean sighed, happy that they both believed that he had figured it out, and had not eavesdropped on them. To be honest, Dean wasn't sure if he would have _ever _figured out how Castiel had gotten past their father's numerous locks on the house door, into the kitchen without Dean noticing—and more importantly, how he had touchedhis forehead, and suddenly there were in a warm, dry motel instead of standing on the sopping wet highway.

"How is he doing?"

Dean climbed onto the bed and eyed Sam warily. He didn't want another fist trying to smash its way through his head, no, once was enough for a lifetime, thank you very much! Dean was starting to love Sam like a…like a…what? He wasn't sure, an older brother, maybe? A young father? Who knew, but he certainly didn't love him enough to allow him to tunnel into his _brain. _Was love even the right word? He loved Samantha, yes. He loved Bobby. And he loved John, despite all his faults. He _hated _Maggie, that was sure as shootin'. But Sam was somewhere in the middle, more likeable than Castiel, who was growing on him, but not loved like family. Not yet…but maybe someday.

He was swimming. No…not swimming. Swimming was _fun. _Swimming didn't _hurt_. He wasn't drowning, either—you couldn't drown in nothingness. Well, not technically, anyway. He was in limbo, maybe that was it. Not dead, but not quite alive.

He shuddered. _Limbo? Not cool. Quick, what can I feel? _His brain was still working, still processing, if it wasn't functioning, and he was too _damn close _to the surface to allow himself to think anything worse. He heard a voice—a small one, using strange grammar—and a very deep, gravely one. Aside from that, there was nothing that could clue him in as to where he was. He knew nothing.

No…that was wrong. He was cold. He knew he was cold—no, burning! _What? _No, he was cold. _I'm burning in ice. The ice is burning me. An icy fire! Huh. That would only happen with my luck, wouldn't it? Burnt to death in an freezer. Weird. _

His thoughts were becoming more coherent, and with it, came the awareness. He relished in the awareness. First came the fuzzy feeling with the pounding headache.

_Liquor. _

Warmth—just a little, pressed into his side.

_Uh…I'll get back to that…_

Then came the fire. The real fire. The burning, stabbing, _excruciating _fire.

_PAIN._

"Unnnggggmmmph."

"What?" Bobby jerked awake. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. Castiel was standing sentinel by the door, staring into nothingness. Knowing what he knew now about the angel, though, Bobby figured Castiel could quite possibly be mid-teleconference, and nobody would know the difference. It took the angel ten minutes to respond when his name was called anyway! He still hadn't gotten any answers on Sam. Hadn't had the time to ask the questions. _Sam! _That's where the strange sound had come from. His mind was immediately awake, all thoughts focused on Sam.

Samantha was pressed tightly against the wounded man's side, both of them securely tucked under a mound of blankets, and even Bobby's jacket, because Sam just wouldn't stop _shaking_. But now the blankets were an apparent hindrance, and Sam was struggling weakly against them. The hand he managed to wrestle free of the blankets made its way feebly to Samantha, gently patting her. Bobby smirked; the kid was trying to figure out what the personal furnace nestled next to him was. Once he realized there was _no way _he was moving said furnace, Sam's hand fell limply to the bed.

Then his leg twitched.

Ah, so the battle wasn't over yet, huh? Bobby grinned. Yup. Definitely a fighter. Sam tried kicking the blankets off; was rudely stopped when he realized there was no moving his right leg without severely painful consequences.

"Owwwww….shiiiiid."

Bobby snickered. _Was that supposed to be "ow, shit"…? _Interesting. When Sam tried again, with the same result, Bobby intervened. He'd had enough amusement at the kid's expense for a while.

"Hey…" he put a gentle hand on Sam's forehead. All struggling ceased instantaneously at the contact. Sam sighed, leaning into Bobby's hand.

_Huh. Now what. _

"C…cas?"

"No, son."

A small smile ghosted over Sam's lips. "D…"

_Oh, no you don't. Don't say it. Whoever he is, I'm not him._

"D—dad?"

_Shit. Well, if he thinks he has a dad…maybe he's not an angel? _

"It's Bobby."

The kid's face scrunched up, he tried to open his eyes. "Bu…but…I…"

Bobby rubbed his thumb in gentle circles on Sam's creased forehead, trying to smooth away the pain and frustration. Sam finally managed to crack one lid open, when he did, he saw Bobby, and his face fell. One pained, disappointed syllable broke Bobby's heart. Again.

"Oh."

Sam moved his head away from Bobby's hand, moaning as he aggravated his head injury. His head bumped into Samantha's and he jerked to full lucidity. He shot upright, knocking Bobby's hand out of the way unintentionally. As soon as his torso was vertical, he was bent over, clutching his stomach, coughing and heaving from pain-induced nausea. Nothing was coming up, not even bile. Not a good sign.

"Hey—careful." Bobby admonished. "Breathe…"

He rubbed Sam's back, figuring that Sam wouldn't care that he was touching bare skin. He didn't seem the type to shun a comforting hand anyway, but Bobby didn't want to push personal boundaries. The head radiating off of Sam's skin had Bobby wishing there was a way that he could get some medicine down Sam's throat without it all being tossed violently into the nearest trash can a few moments later. Maybe he could get some ice to wrap up in a couple of towels, see if that helped.

"Cas?"

The angel was at his side in an instant. _So much for the whole "ten minute response time". _

"Get a washcloth from the bathroom, some cold water."

Castiel nodded and was gone again, not bothering with the tiresome task of walking now that his "secret" was out.

Bobby turned to Sam, bending so he was at eye-level with the panting, shivering wreck that had once been a sturdy young man.

"Sam, you're pretty hot…"

A smirk flitted across Sam's face. "S…so I b-been told."

_Typical Winchester. _Whoops. That had slipped again. He _really _needed to talk to Cas about that possible connection.

"I'm sure you're quite the lady-killer, son. Earlier…you uh, you said something about your dad. What's his name? I'm thinkin' I should call him, let him know you're okay."

"Wha…" Sam looked confused.

"You asked if I was your dad."

Sam scrunched up his face. "M…mis…take."

"A mistake?" Bobby frowned. "Must have been. Your fever is too high. If we don't get it down—"

"NO! No hospital."

"Oh, look who suddenly found his voice again." Bobby chuckled, earning a withering glare from Sam. Bobby squeezed Sam's shoulder reassuringly.

"He will not die." Castiel said suddenly, holding a washcloth and bowl out to Bobby. "He cannot."

"I'm well aware what his…uh…demise…would do to the kids." Bobby growled.

"No. He is not physically capable."

"What, he's an angel too?" Bobby asked incredulously.

Castiel shook his head, setting the items down on the nightstand and leading Bobby away.

"Mr. Singer—Sam …he is not capable of dying. He is a drifter."

"A what? Drifters die, all the time." _Don't you dare waste my time…_

"Not that kind. A drifter. He does not belong anywhere, not in heaven, not on earth, not in hell. They are guardians, capable of moving through all dimensions, including time and space."

"Is that so?" Bobby frowned. Drifters. He'd never heard of them.

"Sam is one of a few. There are not very many. They are usually deceased family members of humans who have a supernatural purpose here on earth. Relatives of humans who need protecting until they are old enough, or experienced enough, to fight evil on their own."

Something clicked inside of Bobby's mind, something important, and it was like someone had dumped a bunch of knowledge into his mind and he had magically processed it all in record time.

"So Sam…_is _a Winchester?"

Castiel nodded. "Samantha had a brother. A twin. He died in the fire."

_The fire…the nursery fire. Why didn't John tell me? _Not that John was a wealth of information when it came to the topic, but still…

"He was a few minutes older than Samantha. He would have helped Dean look after her so Dean would not have to do it on his own. He was not supposed to die—they…they said it would only be Mary."

"Demons lie, Castiel."

Castiel nodded. "I know." His voice was quiet. "He wasn't supposed to take Sam. And he didn't…not quite."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow, signaling for Castiel to continue.

"The baby had weak lungs. He was nearly suffocated by smoke. The lack of oxygen put him into a coma—he died from brain trauma."

"Lack of oxygen to the brain, kills thousands of neurons. Wrecks havoc." Bobby mumbled. "Makes sense."

It was heartbreaking, really. But that would technically mean that Sam should be Samantha's age, not a young man nearing full adulthood.

"What about the age difference?" Bobby pried. "And the names? Did they really name their twins Samuel and Samantha?"

Castiel nodded. "Yes. The age…like I said. Drifters move through time and space because _they do not belong._ When they as a human die before their time because of something an evil being did…they become a drifter, they receive a vessel that is exactly what their vessel would have been in the prime of their life; if they had lived."

"If they move through time, why didn't Sam see the knife coming? The bullet? Couldn't he have dodged them?"

"No."

Bobby heard the "like, DUH" tone loud and clear.

"They can see it, but only when they are outside of time. Once they are back inside of earth's dimensions, _human _dimensions…they are powerless to stop it. They know what will happen, when it will happen—but they also know that it _must _happen. They cannot change the present. They can only make themselves a part of it."

Bobby swallowed. Suddenly his mouth had become very, very dry. _So Sam knew he was going to be shot. Knew he would be stabbed. But he came anyway. Way to remove yourself from the equation, kid. _Another Winchester act of selfless heroism.

"Does Dean know?" Bobby asked quietly.

Castiel tipped his head toward the motel bed where Dean was sleeping. "He does now."

Bobby followed Castiel's gaze to see that Dean was now awake, sitting up, staring at them. By the look on his face, he'd heard everything. Bobby's heart went out to the kid. All this time, he had had a dead little brother and he didn't know it. _He's been through enough! Why this? _

Dean scooted off of the bed and moved to sit next to Sam, who, at some point during their conversation, had mercifully passed out again.

"I only remember bits and pieces of that night." Dean said softly. "I remember Dad pushing Samantha into my arms, telling me to run, to take care of her."

He sniffed, running a trembling hand through Sam's dark hair….his _brother's _hair. Bobby guessed that the gesture was more to ground himself than to comfort Sam.

"When Dad came out of the house…out of the fire…he was holding something…a bundle. I guessed it was clothes, something he'd managed to save." Dean fell silent for a moment. Neither Bobby nor Castiel were eager to encourage him to continue. Bobby wasn't sure he wanted to hear any of it, not any more. He was curious…but not that much. To his dismay, Dean continued.

"I didn't think much of it…not even the next day. Not even when he carried it into an abandoned lot—and didn't…" Tears were making their way down Dean's cheeks. "Didn't…when he came back he wasn't carrying anything. I never asked him about it. He never said anything. He just…walked in, a while later he walked out…we walked away."

Dean's hand stilled in Sam's hair, fisted it gently, even though Bobby could tell that everything was telling the boy to fist it as hard as he could, to find a distraction from the onslaught of new memories and emotions.

"We left him, didn't we? That bundle was _Sam, _and we _left him! _In a junkyard!" Dean sobbed.

_Thank God it wasn't MY junkyard. _Bobby groaned mentally.

"He was dead Dean." Castiel said unhelpfully. Bobby smacked him upside the head.

"I realize you angels aren't too big on emotions, but have a little empathy for the kid!" Bobby hissed, sitting down on the bed and pulling Dean into his arms.

"Castiel is right…regretfully." Bobby said softly. "There wasn't anything your father could do. He couldn't carry around a…a dead baby. It's not right."

Dean nodded, sniffling. "I know. It's just…he coulda told me, ya know? I could have…I coulda had a little brother. I should have remembered. I can remember Samantha coming home from the hospital, I can remember holding her as an infant…so why don't I remember Sam? Why don't I remember my brother! I had a _brother…_" He moaned. A smirk was pulling his lip up, but it was slightly forced. "Not that I don't love Samantha…but…she's a _girl_."

Bobby grinned. "And a pretty one at that."

"Yeah." Dean wiped his eyes, crawling out of Bobby's grasp. He knelt next to Sam, looking him over carefully, spending a lot of time on Sam's face.

_And she'll be as beautiful as your brother is, _Bobby assured the boy mentally. Yeah, Samantha would be one hell of a looker when she was grown up, if Sam's looks were anything to go by.

"Do you think…does he know?" Dean asked.

"That he was human?" Castiel asked. "Yes."

"Can he feel it?" Dean asked quietly.

Castiel's silence drove Dean to clarify his point. _Dumb angels, _Bobby frowned.

"Can he feel the pain?"

"Of loss?" Castiel got it now, bluntly, but he understood. "Yes."

This sent a fresh wave of tears out of Dean, and Bobby glared at Castiel.

"He can feel pain, but it cannot kill him. It can only drive him."

At this, Dean looked up. "You mean, motivate? Pain as a motivator?"

Castiel nodded. "Right now, physical pain is motivating him to heal himself, to allow his body to continue to fight this human-like weakness that has befallen it. Emotional pain will drive him for his entire existence. It is the _only _way that drifters can stay alive."

"You just said it couldn't' kill them." Bobby said.

"It cannot. But they can hang in limbo for long periods of time, forever, if they do not feel anything."

"So you're saying that Sam has felt the pain of emotional loss, every day, for the past what, five years? And _that's _the only thing that keeps him from being a _vegetable?_"

"It seems cruel…but to a drifter…that is their life, their purpose. Not to exist for themselves, but to exist for the ones who are feeling the very same pain. They know nothing else."

Bobby sighed. "I think that's enough confusing revelations for one night."

"It is morning, now." Castiel informed him.

Bobby glared again.

"Dean, why don't you get some sleep. I'll watch Sam."

Dean shook his head. "No. I've already slept. It's your turn Bobby. Besides…he's my little brother. I'll watch him. It's my job."

Bobby huffed. _Now look what you've done, Cas! I'll never get him to leave Sam! _

And maybe that was a good thing, Bobby wasn't sure. He wondered, if pain could motivate a drifter…love could too, couldn't it? Bobby knew that if Dean had anything to do with it, Sam would stick around. And if Sam stuck around, he'd grow on everybody. He'd worm his way into everyone's hearts with those dewy puppy eyes and that pearly white, double-dimpled grin. Sam obviously loved Dean and Samantha—he'd probably been watching them grow up—so it was only natural…only _human, _for the kids to love him back. Hell, Bobby was pretty close to loving the kid himself, and he'd known him less than twenty-four hours. Bobby sighed. Only time would tell. And Bobby hated waiting.

**Ha ha! Got it posted. *sticks tongue out at ominous clock* I beat you, time! In all reality, I knew I would. I crammed everything in so I could write this and post it for you guys. Hopefully you all enjoy it! Sadly, it is truly the last chapter for about a week or so. I've said that for two chapters now, I think. Anyway, I will be looking forward to finding out what you guys think of my rendition of the Winchester's history, so make sure to drop a review in my inbox, if you're feeling up to it. **

**Have a good week =)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello again! I'm back. Did you miss me? Probably not. **

**Just a small update…I got shot. Random thing, police said it could have happened to anybody. Hurt like hell, too. **

**Anyways, I got struck by a thought process (cuz what else was there to do?) Here's where it led me…BTW the language is gonna be a little worse in this chapter, just for a heads-up. He's got a dirty mouth…**

**DISCLAIMER: I didn't get in trouble for not putting one in last time, so I'm not bothering with it this time. Cuz seriously…is Kripke REALLY gonna sue poor little me for having a little fun and creativity? *listens for Kripke's response, is met with silence* Didn't think so. **

**So, here goes =)**

_Pain. He'd been taught to work around it. Ignore it. Deal with it. But he couldn't ignore this pain. __**Get a grip on yourself! You're a soldier. You can handle this.**__ But the oppressive darkness was too strong for a one-man army to bear. The darkness greedily enveloped him as he slowly surrendered to it. _

An incessant beeping sound drug him from his blissful, oblivious state of unconsciousness.

_Beep. _

Ugh. Stop it!

_Beep. _

_Beep. _

Gah! Did it ever _shut up?_

_Beep-beep-beep._

_**Samantha, TURN THAT TOY OFF!**_

_Beepbeepbeepbeep_

It was increasing in frequency, now? What was wrong with it! Didn't it have any mercy?

The beeping continued, and he launched himself toward the sound. At least, that's what his original intent had been. Searing pain tore through his shoulder as he tried to move, telling him that something wasn't right. He was battling a hangover from hell—he must have gotten into a bar fight, tore a ligament in his shoulder or something.

He pried one eye open…he'd tried for two, but one was all he could manage. _White. _He was surrounded in beeping whiteness. Huh. Interesting. Something told him he should be recognizing this place, but he couldn't. Finally, his foggy brain registered the beeping sound as a heart monitor.

_Heart monitor? _Hospital. SHIT! No, no NO! This was bad. Really bad. Like, 'running out of rock salt' bad. How the hell had he managed to get checked into a hospital? He hated hospitals. Hospitals were messy. Not literally, because hospitals were actually the cleanest place on earth, probably. But they were messy _metaphorically_. Paperwork, insurance, questions…always with the questions. It was like the people didn't know how to let sleeping dogs lie. Like every attendant's favorite game was 20 Questions. It sucked.

Warmth was spreading through him—he glanced down at his arm. IV. Of course. Timed release pain killers. That meant his brain was gonna go to mush for the next six hours or so. Double shit.

He pressed back into the lumpy pillow (why did they bother? Most patients were too out of it to be comfortable, and those who were awake were in too grouchy to care). The drugs were spreading through him, that was obvious—he could barely form a coherent thought. But there was a pain that the drugs weren't washing away…his shoulder was a dull throb now, hardly noticeable… but the agony in his chest far surpassed any other discomfort. Heart attack? Doubtful.

He struggled with his thoughts, trying to dominate the hold the drugs had over his system. It was working, marginally, he realized, as the events of the past few hours came back to him.

_He was staring down the barrel of the revolver that had magically appeared in Maggie's hands. The pistol John had bought her, taught her to use. The pistol in the hand of the mother of his young son. The pistol that was aimed at his head. _

"_John, I swear—"_

_**No, don't go there**__._

"_Maggie, please…put the gun down." _

"_Choose John, Now!" _

_**Dean and Samantha…Maggie and Chester…**__The words played on loop. I love them all! How can she expect me to choose? _

"_Maggie, I can't! Please—don't make me." __**I can't believe I'm using this tone! I don't plead, or beg, anyone. **_

"_Can't do it, huh?" Maggie adjusted her grip on the revolver. "Fine. You don't have to." _

_**Oh joy, my lucky day. Is she serious? She looks it. Maybe…**__the gun started to lower slightly. __**Come on, Mags, you can do it. Put it down…**_

_The impact drove him to his knees with a grunt. Pain blossomed in his shoulder, spread like wildfire throughout his body. __**She shot me. That bitch shot me! **__My wife, Chester's mother…she shot me…owww…he tried to breathe through the pain. His vision was foggy, he registered voices, Maggie's and a new, deeper voice. __**Does Maggie have a boyfriend? **__It looked like Maggie was pointing the gun at the new person. Not the boyfriend, then…he spaced out, then was drug out of his pained haze when another wave of pain rolled through him. _

"_Hang in there, sir, I've already called an ambulance." _

_**For who? Oh yeah. For me. Crap. Sonuvabitch this hurts! **__He groaned softly. Suddenly the voice was right next to him, washing over him. _

"_Sir, can you hear me?" _

_John tried to nod._

"…_gonna be okay…police…here soon." _

"_Dean! Samantha? Where are they?" _

_He was pretty sure the sentence didn't come out how he had planned. It took a moment for the man to register what he had said, and then respond accordingly. _

"_Your kids…fine…with me…"_

_**Wonderful. Who was this guy, anyway? **__He pried his eyes open, saw the face of a handsome young man, probably no older than 20, hovering over him. Shaggy brown bangs fell into his eyes. Those eyes…made John think he was staring right back into his own. There were flecks of green in them…green, the color of Mary's eyes, of Dean's eyes…_

"_Do I…I know you?" He weakly wrangled the sentence together, earning himself a comforting pat on his uninjured shoulder._

"_Nah…don't think so…there, buddy…hang on a sec."_

_Something warm and slightly damp was pressed to John's shoulder. Fresh agony raged down his arm, across his chest. John hissed quietly, his vision went black for a few minutes, his blood pounding through his ears, deafening him. The next thing he knew, the nice young man was lying next to him, fresh blood mixing with his own. _

_**Oh God, did she kill him? Did Maggie kill that guy? **__He looked at Maggie, forcing himself to focus. His heart skipped three beats, maybe four, as he met Maggie's glare. Sirens waned in the distance, help was on the way. But suddenly, John didn't want help. He didn't want to live. Didn't want to die, either, but he couldn't live knowing that Maggie, the only woman who could ever even come close to replacing Mary, had lied to him, betrayed him. Distanced him from Dean and Samantha. Had broken both his family and his heart. Maggie suddenly raised the gun again, firing away at something John couldn't see. All the while, John's eyes were locked on Maggie's face. The face that was filled with pure fury, but had once been filled with love—love for him—but somehow, that had been a lie. It had to have been. Her kind didn't love, couldn't love. _

_As John once again looked into Maggie's eyes—her oily, dark, ink black eyes—he knew he was fucked. _

John jolted awake painfully. _Maggie was a demon. _How had he missed that? For two, three years! He'd been living with—wed to!—a demon. Not possible. So not cool, so not possible. John fidgeted. He had to move, had to get away, _anywhere_, away from here. Maggie was probably locked up somewhere, getting questioned, Chester was probably in protective custody. Dean and Samantha were with some stranger…shit! Where were his kids?

Fatherly instinct (he refused to call it "panic") spurred John into action. He _had _find his kids! He yanked the IV out of his arm, knowing he'd pay the price for that later, but not caring. He swung his legs to the floor (no small feat) and stilled himself as the room swam around him. Looking down, he realized he was still in his beltless jeans—he must have been out for less time than he'd originally thought, if the staff hadn't had time to change him into one of those ridiculously embarrassing gowns.

His bare feet hit the cold tile floor, helping to sharpen his alertness as he carefully padded across the room, testing his strength. He really couldn't feel much of anything, courtesy of the pain killers, and figured he at least had enough steam to get out of the hospital and to a phone. His gaze flickered across the room, landing on a cell phone on the nightstand. _Okay, just enough steam to get out of here, then. _He snatched the phone, recognizing it as his own, and grabbed the steel-toe construction grade boots that were laying by his bedside. The staff must have yanked them off and discarded them, he realized as he eyed the brutally hacked laces. At least the boots themselves weren't damaged, they'd cost him a bloody fortune. John slipped them on, relishing in the feeling of comfort and normalness they brought him. He searched the room for his shirt, realizing it was a lost cause when he found the bloody shreds that might have resembled his shirt at _one point_ in a hazardous materials trash bin.

"Guess I'll have to do without one…" John shrugged, instantly regretting having done so.

Escaping a hospital really wasn't that hard. You just had to know what to do, and how to do it properly. It had to be believable. Walking straight out the door _shirtless _would probably attract some unwanted attention. The hall was pretty quiet though, and he had no trouble snatching a bulky leather jacket off of a doctor's coat rack as he passed an empty office. _Must be lunchtime, everybody's gone, this place is a ghost town! Wrong analogy, John. _Putting the jacket on strained his shoulder more than he would have liked to admit, but he finally got the leather garment zipped up to a point where it was pretty hard to tell that he was bare-chested underneath. It was a little snug, and a teeny bit of bandage showed, maybe it would look like a t-shirt at first glance. And _one _glance was all he was planning on allowing any on-lookers. On a normal day, he enjoyed the interested looks that women sent his direction, the jealous glances that their male counterparts tossed him after hustling their woman away…but he didn't want any of those today.

John finally reached the lobby, having by-passed elevator cameras in favor of the grueling stairs, and hung back a little to scope out the area. The place was still fairly empty. Reception was busy on the phone, a few people were scattered about the waiting room, nose deep in magazines. The rest were buried deep within their own thoughts, prayers, or whatever, while they waited for news of their loved ones. He caught a break when two women, probably sisters in their thirties, passed him on their way out the door. They caught him looking at them, both shot him a small smile. To him, it was a smile of sympathy. _Who are you waiting for? Are they alright? Have you even gotten any news? You're in good company, buddy, I'm hope your family is all right. _But to an onlooker, it was a smile of recognition, even though he knew it was a smile that simply acknowledged that both he and the women were sharing the same pain—lack of knowledge—and heavy apprehension.

But it was the opportunity that he had been looking for. As soon as the women had passed him, he stepped out of the hallway, falling in step just behind them. He'd done this enough, he knew what he was doing. _Keep your head bowed, don't make eye contact. You're with them….you're with them…_one ofthe woman held the door open for him, and he nodded his thanks. Usually, he would have turned on the Winchester charm, held the door open for _them _like a gentleman would. But now, his shoulder was making itself known again, and he was more than happy to have the tables turned for a little bit. He walked just slightly ahead of the women until he was out of hospital staff's eyesight, then took off at a sprint through the parking lot.

Each step sent jarring pain through his shoulder, the morphine was definitely wearing off. But he couldn't let that stop him, couldn't…he paused by a bus stop, leaning heavily against it to catch his breath.

_Breath through the pain. Mind over pain. _Not working. Ouch, ow, _sonuvabitch_! He stomped his unlaced boot into the pavement, tugging his cell phone from his jeans pocket. He hit speed dial 5 and slowly sank to the ground to wait.

"_Hello?" _

"Missouri?"

"_I'm here, son." _

John breathed a sigh of relief. The psychic certainly didn't need caller ID to know it was him calling.

"_The boys are safe, Johnny." _

Damn. No matter how often he spoke with the woman, her answering his unspoken questions was still unnerving as hell. And her knick name for him was infuriating.

"Thanks. Wait…boys? Wha…what?"

"_Samantha too. They're with Bobby." _

"Missouri…I only h—" his body shook with a coughing fit that left him breathless and counting stars. "I only have one son." He tried again, painfully. _Samuel died, Missouri. You know that. He died! Yellow Eyes killed him. Just like he killed Mary. Just like he killed me, on the inside. _

"_Don't go telling me what I already know, boy!" _Missouri harrumphed.

"Yeah…fine…uh, where are my kids?"

"_Ask Castiel. He will take you to them, son." _

The line went dead. "Missouri? Shit!" John slammed the phone shut, earning himself a reproachful stare from an elderly woman escorting her grandson to the bus stop. He hauled himself off of the ground slowly, easing away the nausea. _Fuck. _He just wanted to puke his guts out, then curl up and die. Yeah, die, that sounded pretty good. But he couldn't. He had to find what's-his-name Cassie…Caspian…Castiel. That was it.

"Castiel. Who the hell is that? And how does he know where my kids are?"

He was hit with something painful inside of his brain. His vision darkened, he was thrown back to a few hours ago when he had been lying on the floor in his house.

"_Cas! Am I supposed to take Chester along wi—" _ That was it. The young guy Maggie shot had been with his partner, who must have been Castiel. It couldn't be coincidence, Missouri knew what she was talking about. So all he had to do was find his kid's nameless savior, and he would find Castiel. Easy. Ha.

He swore quietly, mindful of Granny and Sonny-boy who were still eyeing him suspiciously. John gave them a farewell nod, and set off down the street. It wasn't long before he came across a non-descript, unlocked vehicle.

Idiots these days. Leaving their unlocked car parked along a main street in the middle of the evening. He almost smiled at his luck, luck that he didn't' usually have, and lowered himself into the vehicle. It was a Honda, much smaller than the truck he was used to, or the Impala that he loved, but it was a car, and it worked.

He rummaged around in the wiring, but stopped as he realized that even if he could jack it, he wouldn't' get past the lock on the steering column. He lifted the floor mat and grinned as he hit gold. A spare key. Again, idiots these days. He plunged the key into the ignition, threw it into gear, and floored the gas. Headed for the highway, he took the first on-ramp he saw and just _drove, _trusting his instincts to lead him_. _

Miles away, Missouri sat in her bathrobe with a cup of soothing Chamomile tea steaming away in her hands. Her heart went out to John. He was in a lot of pain right now, both physical and emotional. He didn't' have anyone to help him through it anymore either. So she did the best she could. She thought calming thoughts, sipped her calming tea, and reached out until she felt her psyche gently brush against John's. She took another sip of tea, thought more calming thoughts, and carefully connected them.

John drove for miles, so many he'd lost count. He'd calmed slightly after he started driving, maybe talking to Missouri had helped.

His calm was short lived.

Another half hour into his trip, and the little Honda's front right tire blew—there were no towns for miles around, no traffic to speak of, and John had a nagging hunch that with his shoulder in the condition it was, he wouldn't be turning the crank on the car jack anytime soon. He eased the car onto the shoulder as carefully as possible. Threw open the car door. Promptly tumbled out.

"SHIT!" he yelled. Who cared how loud he was, there was nobody around! "Ow." He had landed awkwardly on his tailbone, his right shoulder contacting the asphalt immediately afterward. Warmth seeped across his skin, he knew he'd popped a couple stitches. John rolled into a more comfortable position—try: one that didn't put ANY pressure on his injured arm—and leaned his head against his outstretched left arm.

"Come on, Castiel." He whispered quietly. "Where are you."

**Sorry that chapter didn't have Sam or Dean in it. But it was reeeaaallly necessary to the story. So…yeah. Hope you enjoyed it. Will post again soon. **


	13. Chapter 13

**DIDN'T MEAN TO MAKE ALL OF YOU WAIT SO LONG FOR ME TO UPDATE. Sorry.**

**A/N**

**Either nobody cares…or nobody reads author's notes, both of which are probably true =) **

**Just so you guys know, I wasn't shot. I just wanted to see if I got any questions or comments about it; that would tell me whether or not you guys read these. **

**No harm done, just a little test. **

**On with the story…**

**OOOH before I forget. **

**I'm happy to see the responses I got from the last chapter. I didn't know how well I wrote John, but I got positive reviews, so…thanks =)**

**Disclaimer: I think we've been over this enough.**

Castiel watched Dean carefully. He wasn't sure if Dean could be trusted to take care of Sam. Did children that young really have enough control over their motor functions to be deemed trustworthy? The young boy truly was _trying _to be careful; painstakingly running the damp washcloth over Sam's sweating face and torso. Castiel didn't _think _that the heartbreaking moans sliding out of Sam's throat were being caused by Dean's ministrations…

"I think he's waking up." Dean's observation brought Castiel out of his thoughts. He hastened to the drifter's side, not quite sure how to respond to the small, strangled noises Sam was making. Dean shot off to the motel bathroom. What was he to make of Dean's speedy departure? His question was soon answered. Dean re-entered the room, complimentary disposable coffee cup in hand, filled halfway with tap water.

Castiel quirked a brow at Dean.

"He's gotta be thirsty, dude."

Castiel's other brow shot up. _Dude?_

He watched as Dean gently lifted Sam's head up, sliding onto the bed. He gently hauled the large man into an upright position, allowing Sam's back to rest against his legs and chest. The strength that the young boy possessed startled Castiel.

"Can you drink this Sammy?" Dean held the Styrofoam cup to Sam's lips, coaxing the liquid into the man's mouth. It dribbled back out, running down Sam's lax jaw to mix in with the sweat pooled near Sam's clavicle. Dean's face fell as Sam weakly pushed the cup away with a soft grunt.

"B-burns." Sam mumbled so quietly that Castiel wondered if Dean, without angel senses, could hear it.

"It's water." Dean muttered quietly into Sam's ear. "It won't hurt you."

Sam shook his head anyway, earning himself a sigh from Dean. The young boy looked at Bobby, who was finally stirring awake.

"Bobby…" Dean whined.

Blearily blinking at the bright light streaming in through the motel windows, Bobby stood, stretching kinks from his back and shoulders.

"I gave him some holy water last night." Bobby frowned. "He probably remembers and doesn't want any more of the stuff."

Dean mimicked Bobby's frown. The room fell into a silence that was palpable.

_Cas. _

Castiel jerked his head around, following the sound. Bobby glanced up sharply, alarmed by Castiel's sudden movement.

"What's gotten into ya, boy?"

Castiel held his hand up, the universal signal for silence. Bobby snapped his jaw shut with an audible click. Cas stared at Sam, who was now staring back; wide hazel eyes clouded with pain and worry for his guardian. So it wasn't Sam calling for him.

_Come on, Castiel. Where are you. _

It wasn't a voice that Castiel recognized, which ruled out both Bobby and Dean. It was a man…so Samantha was also out of the equation.

"Castiel?"

The voice was in the room this time. Bobby. He snapped his gaze to meet the other man's.

"Yes?"

"What'sa matter with ya?"

"I am fine." Castiel frowned. "I…I have to go."

"Doesn't sound find to me." Bobby muttered to Dean, who was still trying to convince a reluctant Sam that the water wouldn't burn this time. "Just pour the damn cup down his throat, Dean." Bobby instructed. Dean did as he was told. Sam choked and spluttered, until finally his throat obeyed and began transporting the life-saving liquid to his dehydrating organs.

Castiel considered staying, making sure that Sam was alright. But he was being called, from somewhere, someone, and he knew he had to answer. Sam was in good hands—Bobby was a good man, and Dean a good boy. Samantha might be a handful, but she knew to stay out of the way when it really mattered.

"I have to go." Castiel repeated, not waiting for an answer this time. He closed his bright blue eyes, separating himself from his surroundings, clearing his mind. Focusing on one sound.

_Cas. _

The voice was familiar.

_Damn you! What's taking so long. _

The voice was upset.

_You'd better—aaah!—know where my kids are._

The voice was in pain. And definitely upset.

_Damn cars don't know how to stop for pedestrians. _

What? Castiel opened his eyes. The voice was not making any sense. Perhaps that's what voices did. Just talked, not caring what they said, or who heard them. Could that be true? Could humans really not care what went on inside those fragile heads of theirs? It was something Castiel would have to remember to ask one of his brothers, when he got the chance.

_CASTIEL! You mother fu—_

Castiel closed his eyes and took himself toward the sound.

John Winchester stumbled along the side of the highway, head down against the biting rain. Traffic that hadn't been there before had magically shown up now, right when he was trying to cross the highway, blaring their bright headlights into his eyes, aggravating his already throbbing head. No matter how comfortable the highway had felt after he had fallen on it, lounging about while his kids were missing wouldn't do. No, sitting around just wasn't the Winchester way. You get up, you ignore the pain, and you fight, dammit! You look the devil in the eyes and kill the bastard. At least, that was John's plan, anyway. Pain was a devil, and John would win, somehow or another, or his name wasn't John Winchester.

For all he knew, his poor kids were holed up in some demon's lair, just waiting for Daddy to come save them from their worst nightmares, from the monsters that hid just outside the safe circle of their bedroom nightlight. He'd always told his kids not to be scared of anything, especially not the dark. When Mary and Samuel—oh God, why _Sam?_—had died, and his eyes had been opened to the evils of the world—he'd realized just how wrong he had been. Kids had every right to be scared of the dark. Hell, out here, with no weapon, no salt, or holy water…with _nothing…_John was a little fearful himself. God knows what was hunting his family—but it was out there, whatever it was…and John didn't want it anywhere near his kids! It would be a cold day in hell when John Winchester let those bastards take another loved one from him.

An opening in the traffic finally appeared, and John jumped at the chance, crossing the highway slick with oily rain water. Here he was met with a predicament. Would the men who had his kids have taken the first exit possible? Or would they have gone to the next town? Maybe they had gotten another car and had kept driving…hell, _anything _could have happened…but somehow, his Impala; his _baby _had found herself sitting on the side of the highway in the pouring rain, abandoned and alone. If it hadn't been for the license plate and his tattered box of classic rock tapes sitting on the floor of the front seat, John would have had to wonder if it was even his car. Who had gotten her in working condition? Who'd had the guts to take the beast out of the garage, even? It was curious. But not as curious as some things he'd seen in his career.

John squinted in the early morning light.

_Certainly _not as curious as some fool standing on the side of the road with a ridiculous camel trench coat and business suit. _What the hell? _He stared at the man, at the dark, messy hair that fell into the man's eyes. At the blood that stained the hem of his damp trench coat.

_Shit. _

Demon?

_No, the eyes aren't right. They're…wow they're __**blue**__. _

Suddenly the man was right next to John, startling the hunter enough to make him stumble a few steps into oncoming traffic. The man grabbed John's arm—his bad arm—and hauled him back to safety, with John grunting and cursing the entire way.

"Are you an idiot?" the man asked him in an eerily robotic voice.

"Are you?" John grouched, shaking the man's arm off.

"I am not the one who ran out into the road."

"You startled me." John griped, taking a few precautionary steps onto the grassy side of the road.

"I am sorry. Were you calling me?"

"Uh…" John bit his lip, a habit he'd picked up from Mary. He could _really _use some Aspirin right now. And coffee…yeah, definitely coffee. It was cold. Since when had the temperature dropped? It was morning, it should be warming up by now. Shit. Couldn't he put _one _coherent thought together? Since when had that been so damn hard? Not since kindergarten, probably…not like he could really remember that anyway…

"John?"

John snapped his head up, realizing that the man had been trying to get his attention.

"John, you were calling me."

_Calling? Nope, buddy, ya got the wrong guy. I was cussin' a friend a' mine out, that's all…well…not a friend really…_John's befuddled mind began grinding away, he could practically feel the gears rubbing squeakily together. _Somebody needs to oil those, _he thought randomly. Ha. Oil a brain. Hardy-har-har. He could be pretty funny when he was about to pass out from blood loss and fatigue…had he been calling someone? Ah yes. Hmm. Did this guy have telepathic abilities? He had to have…John hadn't _actually _called the man. The only person he'd talked to was Missouri. She'd said to find Castiel…but hadn't said how. Perhaps the man would find him? A thought slapped him upside the head and he berated himself for being so utterly slow and _stupid. _

"Castiel?"

The man nodded.

"About friggin' time."

Castiel cocked his head in that robo-man way.

"There is something seriously _wrong _with you." John mused quietly. "Do ya know here my kids are?"

"Dean and Samantha are safe."

"Good." Missouri had said something about "his boys". What was that supposed to mean?

"Is anybody, uh…else…with them?" he asked lamely.

"Bobby and Sam."

John felt his heart skip a couple of beats at the mention of his dead son's name. _Sam! It…it has to be coincidence. Sam's a popular name…everybody wants to be able to call their adorable, sweet little son "Sammy"…Dean knew what, two other kids named Sammy in preschool? Yeah…popular name… _

He breathed carefully, trying to get a grip on himself. "Bobby's there?" Yeah, focus on Bobby, on something else, John. On anything but poor, innocent, _dead_ Sammy.

"Yes. Would you like me to take you there?"

John nodded quickly, hating the fact that he was relying on this man, the man he didn't even know, to not be leading him into a trap. Of course, if his kids were there, it didn't' matter. A trap was the only place he wanted to be if it kept his kids safe.

But it didn't matter. The man had two fingers on his forehead before John could say fu—udge…

Sam didn't want to drink. Didn't want to move. Hell, he didn't even want to be _awake_. But here he was, propped up embarrassingly against Dean, the poor kid's body _had_ to be protesting the awkward weight. The only good thing about his current predicament was the gentle, steady hand that carded through his damp, sweaty hair; the small, but strong fingertips massaging his scalp every few strokes, easing the pain in his head to a bearable level.

And that was exactly why he was hovering on the fragile line between reality and dream-land…because of that hand, the hand that gave him something to focus on aside from the pain. When he was awake he was in unbearable physical pain, feeling each drop of throbbing blood as it tried to pulse out of ragged, bandaged wounds. But when he was asleep (since when had he needed to sleep anyway?) visions flashed before his eyes, visions of his sibling's lives, his father's life…even his mother's life…flashing like a movie in front of his mind, burning their sad, horrifying images into his brain. There was no reprieve, no rest. He had to choose between mindless pain, or bodiless pain.

Sam chose the mindless pain. If he was awake, the hand in his hair kept the images at bay, and that was enough to have him fighting sleep even though it seemed that sleep was what his body craved.

But nightmares didn't count as sleep, so it was a lose/lose situation either way.

So Sam lay there, pillowed by Dean's small body, panting shallowly through the pain that plagued his aching wounds.

Sam didn't know how long he had drifted in oblivion. It was mid-morning based on the light in the motel room. He didn't want to open his eyes far enough to focus on anything, but something, some commotion, begged him to give it his full attention.

He heard voices; Bobby's, Castiel's, even Samantha's—the high pitched squealing was unmistakable—but there was another voice there…a voice from long ago. From…_before. _Sam recognized it, had longed to hear it for as much time as he'd been dead…but he couldn't place it. He knew he should know the voice, and technically he did, but…he heard Castiel shouting over Samantha's squealing, trying to talk to Bobby.

"—tried to explain, but…perhaps you can tell him Mr. Singer?"

"Yeah, yeah, the idjit seems to be going into shock." Bobby responded.

_Who's going into shock? Oh no, DEAN! _Sam bolted upright in bed, ignoring how that pulled painfully on the wound in his hip, sent stars flashing in front of his eyes as his head wound made itself known again. Small hands grabbed his shoulders, thin arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him back, keeping him grounded. Dean was still there…

Sam forced his eyes to focus as the room spun around him. Bobby was staring at him in a mixture of sympathy and concern, Castiel's eyes were all wide and deer-in-the-headlights. Samantha was clambering all over another man…Sam caught the man's gaze.

Hazel eyes locked with deep chocolate brown over the curly mop of Samantha's hair. Sam swallowed, his dry mouth suddenly feeling like the Sahara desert. He knew that man. He _knew _that…man…

The dark brown hair flecked with the beginnings of grey, the smile that looked just like Dean's…oh God. That was his father. The noise quieted as Bobby and Castiel realized that father and son were looking at each other for the first time in years. Sam recognized John…but would John recognize him? He held his breath, waiting, unable to say anything, even though he wanted to say _so much. _

John went limp in Castiel's grasp, would have fallen to his knees if not for Castiel's strong arm wrapped around his chest to support him.

"Oh God…so much like her…" was all John could say.

"Like who?" Bobby asked, surprisingly gentle for his usual gruffness.

"Mary. Samantha." John breathed. "He's just like…"

Seconds that felt like hours ticked away as Sam's lungs finally reminded him he had yet to breathe. He sucked in a lungful of musty oxygen; smelled blood, sweat, rain, leather.

"Dad?" he whispered, hesitant to do so because he was afraid. Afraid John wouldn't recognize him, wouldn't _know _him. But this was what he had lived for. The only reason he was a drifter. To protect his family, every _single _member of it. The room was silent—even Bobby and Castiel were waiting for John's answer. Samantha was unnaturally quiet. Sam could feel Dean's arms, still tight around him, loosen as he peered around Sam's broad shoulder to look at John.

When John finally did answer, it came out as a choked sound, halfway between a relieved sigh and a strangled sob.

"_Sammy_?"

Sam nodded, not willing to trust his voice. Being a drifter, he wasn't supposed to have emotions that varied _this much. _It was just supposed to be pain. Heartbreak. Sometimes rage. But this…Sam wasn't sure he was ready for this, whatever it was. So he figured that, for once, he could step outside of his job description.

He could let his family take care of him for a change.

**THE END**

Just kidding. I'm gonna write an epilogue.

And if anybody wants to write me a Hurt!John fic (with actual blood and action, not the emo stuff)…I just might start another story and dedicate it to them…*hint hint*


	14. Chapter 14

**So****…****here****we****are****at****the****final****chapter****of**_**Life**____**as**____**a**____**Crumb**____**with**____**a**____**Puppy**____**Named**____**Sam.**___

**How'd y'all like it? Positive reviews say it went well…thanks to all of you for sticking with it! **

**I don't know how long it will be before I post another fic. If you have requests, let me know, I'll see if maybe I can't cook something up. **

**DISCLAIMER: So this time, I'll do it right. I don't own Supernatural. Period. We good? Good. **

_Epilogue_

"Dean, catch!"

Samantha threw the sawed-off at her older brother, who was currently waist-deep in a partially dug grave, stripped down to his jeans and sweating in the afternoon sun. Dean caught the gun deftly with his right hand, bringing it smoothly around to blast Casper the Not-So-Friendly ghost to smithereens.

Dean tossed the gun back to Samantha. "Next time he comes back, you stall him yourself, bitch." Dean griped, hastily tossing loads of dirt out of the grave.

"Woulda shot him if he wouldn't have been so close to your fugly head, jerk." Samantha shot back, grinning.

"Hey! Stop stealing my words!"

She sauntered over to Dean and thwacked him on the back of the head, but picked up the gun and scanned the premises anyway.

"Yeah, yeah. That's your answer to everything. Hit big brother whenever you can't think of a snappy come-back."

"GIRLS!"

A bark from their father instantly sobered the two siblings.

"Are we here to burn this SOB or to hold a bitch contest amongst the cheer squad?"

"To burn him, sir." They mumbled simultaneously, turning around quickly to hide their snickering, which, judging by their father's "I'm frustrated, but slightly amused" huff, they hadn't turned fast enough.

"This is gonna be another of those things that gets us into trouble with the locals when they find we rampaged their cemetery then got the heck outta Dodge." Dean groused.

"Don't you like being the infamous Winchester Gang?" She punched him lightly in the shoulder.

"I don't like being on Casper's Most Wanted list."

"Huh?"

Dean shrugged. "What if there are more Caspers here? Like Casper's family, maybe?"

" Yeah, about that…" Samantha started.

"I don't wanna know."

"You brought it up!"

"I know. But then we're gonna talk about family ties…and from there we're headed down Chick-Flick Lane." Dean moaned.

Samantha rolled her eyes.

"You know, Annie. We could always ask Castiel to "grace" our names off of that list. He might do it." Dean suggested, purposely tossing a shovelful of dirt onto Samantha's boots.

"It's _Samantha_, " she reminded him, "And that angel of yours still owes me a puppy."

John scoffed at that, but remained silent. They all knew they couldn't afford a dog. Besides, they'd have to cart it around in the Impala all day long, then try and find a way to smuggle it into a motel every night. But she still brought it up every time Dean mentioned his socially awkward guardian.

"So?" Dean frowned. "Your drifter ain't helping us out much either."

Samantha raised one booted foot and pressed hard into Dean's shoulder, which was about knee-height for her right now. One shove had him sprawled on his stomach, momentarily stunned.

And that was how Castiel found the Winchester family.

Gathered around a century-old grave, one of them spitting dirt, the other two spitting giggles. John managed to get his breathing under control long before the youngest Winchester did, and hauled Dean out of the grave.

"Give it a rest, boy."

Dean nodded, and collapsed onto the dirt next to the grave.

"Who's…gonna…finish it?" Samantha gasped between peals of laughter. Apparently Dean's reaction had been _that_funny. Castiel wondered if he would _ever_understand humans…much less the Winchesters.

John grinned, a slow, conniving grin that sobered Samantha within seconds. He tossed the shovel at her. "You are."

She groaned.

"Your brother did the hard part, so stop bitching and get it over with before Casper comes back."

"I'm not—" Samantha started.

"You were bitching in your head, I can tell." John interrupted.

"You've got that "bitch face", Samantha." Dean added. "It's always _totally_obvious." He pushed Samantha into the grave and snickered.

"Watch it Dean." John warned. "I don't care if ya hit each other on your hard skulls; ya can both get in there and dig if ya keep this up." He scanned the graveyard, eyes falling on Castiel. John turned back to his kids.

"Put some muscle into it, we've got company."

Samantha glanced up, her gaze landing on Castiel, and huffed; putting all of her five-feet-ten-inches into her work, quickly hitting the top of the casket.

"Salt."

Dean tossed her the salt, gasoline, and a lighter, and Samantha finished up the job.

John strode behind his kids as they made their way over to the gate of the graveyard where Castiel stood.

"I'm surprised Casper didn't come back for an encore." Dean said, brushing dirt off of his jacket that Samantha had dumped on the ground after he handed it to her.

"I thought perhaps you would appreciate it if I kept him at bay." Castiel finally spoke up. Samantha ignored his comment, denying him the proper reply of "thank you".

"Where's Sam?"

"Busy." Castiel replied cryptically.

"By 'busy', you mean 'doing your dirty work cuz you have better things to do'?" Sam frowned, appearing out of thin air. John refrained from allowing the man to see that his sudden appearance had startled him. It _still_kinda freaked him out every time Sa—his _son__—_did that.

"What kinda dirty work?" Dean prodded, accompanying the question with a subtle upwards jerk of the hips that he probably thought John didn't catch.

Sam rolled his eyes—looking just like Samantha when he did—and huffed. "Pervert."

"Freak."

"Say that to my face next time I spend five hours trying to pick out a present for your sister."

"You bought her a present?"

"No, Dean, I stole it. Of _course_I bought it."

"Oh." Dean sounded disappointed.

John groaned inwardly. _God,__couldn__'__t__ANY__of__them__grow__up?_At least Sam wasn't a stick in the mud like Castiel, but sometimes, John wished he could have just a _little_bit of sanity.

One glance at Samantha, though, had his mind on a different track. He hardly ever saw the girl smile, except for when Dean was harassing her, and vice versa. But now, Samantha was wearing a full-blown grin, double-dimples showing on her pretty face, her hazel eyes sparkling. She brushed her shaggy brown bangs out of her eyes to better see what Sam was hiding behind his back. Sam brought the present out into the open, but Dean was blocking most of John's view. Not to worry though…the excited, breathy whimpering was enough to tell John all he needed to know.

_Fu__—__udge_.

Sam had paced (or, more appropriately, _limped_—he never would heal completely from that stupid knife wound) inside the pet store for _hours_, debating on which breed would make for the _perfect_puppy. A small dog wouldn't do, they made too much noise, and would make for a rather tempting football for John. Too big of a dog would prove to be an expense that the Winchester family couldn't afford, which would result in Dean stealing food and vaccines to make sure that his sister's pet didn't die on her from some strange disease it would no doubt contract by sleeping on numerous motel floors. The dog had to be obedient, and playful, and cute, and soft, and…

No wonder Castiel had sent Sam to pick the dog.

He inwardly cursed the angel, mindful of the families around him who would likely not appreciate his large, foul vocabulary.

Finally, after petting, inspecting, and turning down darn near every dog in the damn store, Sam had found it. It had been sleeping, which was why he had missed it on his first, fifth, then sixteenth pass of the kennels. But this time, the puppy was awake, stretching and yawning, setting curious eyes on Sam as he stopped in front of its kennel. The dog was a mutt, from what he could tell, it looked like a mix of a Rottweiler and something unidentifiable. Sam had known, with one look into those beautiful brown eyes that looked like they could see straight through your soul, that this was a puppy that would (hopefully) make the nineteen-year-old Winchester happy.

He'd bought the dog, stroking its black and caramel coat the whole time, and zapped himself to where Castiel was waiting for the Winchesters to finish the salt and burn. The abrupt mode of travel had cause the puppy's stomach to churn, and he had to disappear while the dog threw up breakfast _and_ lunch onto Sam's grey thermal shirt. The _worst_part was, the puppy had turned around and cleaned the shirt himself. _Gross._

But it was all worth it to see the look on his twin's face as he handed her the squirming bundle of joy.

"It's about damn time. Look at those paws! He's gonna be a sasquatch." Dean grinned, placing an affectionate pat on the puppy's head. Sam swore that he saw John's face lose at _least_two shades of tan.

"What if I need to leave him behind sometime, like, when it gets too dangerous for him?" Samantha asked, still staring joyfully at the puppy.

"Sam will take care of him." Castiel said simply. Samantha looked at Sam for confirmation. How could he say no to two sets of those damn puppy eyes?

"Naturally."

A glare was directed at Castiel. They'd discuss _this_later. Yeah…this whole master/apprentice thing? So not cool.

"Can he hunt?" John asked. Sam knew he was trying to find something that would justify owning the animal.

"He can be trained." Samantha silenced any answer Sam might have provided. "Won't cha, boy! I know you will. I know you—"

"Uggh! You're making me sick." Dean moaned. "Please tell me you're not gonna name him something cuddly like "Fluffy". Or "Mittens." Or—"

"Those are _cat_names, you moron." Samantha grinned. "I'm gonna name him Winchester. Sam Winchester."

Sam felt the blood leave his face. Dean slung a arm over Sam's shoulder, pulling him into a brotherly hug.

"Join me in life as a crumb?" Sam asked in a voice that could barely be heard, suddenly realizing what Castiel had meant when he had kept telling him that Dean had felt unimportant until he met Sam. He was feeling pretty unimportant now that he was looking at his cuddly replacement.

Dean nodded, squeezing him again, then letting him go with a heavy punch in the arm.

"Life as a crumb, with a puppy named Sam."

**THE END **

**(for real)**


End file.
